


Fraternité et Égalité

by BazinMousqueton



Series: An Aesthetic of Miracle [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Almost) Everyone is Bi, Alternate Universe - Architects, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Athos Whump, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Polyamory, Punishment Coffee, Swearing, d'Artagnan Whump, everyone is an architect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: Herblay Fère Vallon Architects has been shortlisted for its first commission. Porthos takes a gamble that might win them the competition, Aramis sleeps with their competitor's mistress, and Athos's past at Café Fraternité comes back to haunt him.





	1. Rue Demoustier

Athos stopped pedalling, slammed on his brakes and swore. The Monday morning rush-hour traffic was backed up all along the narrow road, leaving no space to squeeze past. Exhaust fumes eddied around him. He checked his phone for the time and swore again. He'd _promised_ Porthos.

The car in front edged forward a few centimetres.

Athos sat back on his seat, computing alternative routes. The drawing tube slung over his back shifted; he pulled its strap back onto his shoulder, glad when the edge of the metal buckle dug in. He deserved the pain. He wouldn't make it in time. 

Unless... 

If he cut down the Rue Demoustier he'd be able to take the _piste cyclable_ straight to Bourbon Developments' headquarters.

He'd avoided the Rue Demoustier for five years. 

He checked his phone again. There was no other way. Porthos's gamble would fail if Athos didn't arrive in time with the new drawings. And Porthos's idea was their best chance of winning this competition, getting their first commission, and finally being able to leave Studio Tréville to set up on their own. 

Herblay Fère Vallon Architects. 

Athos loved the sound of their names together. _Herblay Fère Vallon._

He had to get there.

Athos wrenched his bike into a U-turn that took him onto the pavement. He scowled to intimidate pedestrians into standing aside. He always found a thunderous expression more effective than the _ting-ting_ of his bell. He stood up on the pedals, cut back across the road, and made an entirely illegal turn into the pedestrianised part of Rue Demoustier. A white van hooted. Athos gave the driver a disdainful chin flick and accelerated. Perhaps if he rode fast enough he wouldn't see the burnt out shell of his dreams.

Half-way down the street he halted, staring. The final time he'd visited Café Fraternité, to hand over the keys to his lawyer, it had been boarded up; its fire-shattered windows concealed by graffiti-covered OSB. He'd assumed it had stayed that way. It had never occurred to him someone might have taken it over and repaired it.

The boards were gone. The windows were mended; their frames painted a rich burgundy. He saw bookshelves inside, people moving. Heard someone laugh. Felt light-headed. The edges of his vision greyed and he realised he was hyperventilating. He screwed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing slowly.

He focused on Porthos and Aramis, and their competition design. His breathing came back under control. He didn't look at the shop again, although its name -- Égalité -- imprinted itself on his mind. He cycled as fast as he could: running away from his past, running towards his friends and his future.

He reached Bourbon Developments' underground car park only moments after Porthos, skidding to a standstill as Porthos switched off his motorbike's engine. They both took off their helmets -- Porthos's a shiny, black, ultra-masculine number; Athos's a lightweight colander of polystyrene covered with dayglo green plastic. Athos chained his bike to a railing.

"Do I have helmet hair?" he asked Porthos.

Porthos pulled a face, beckoned him close, and used both hands to smooth down Athos's shoulder length hair. 

"You'll do," Porthos said, eventually. "Are we good to go?"

"You're sure you can get us in?"

"Yeah," Porthos said, stripping off his leather jacket. He swapped biker boots for loafers, pulled his suit jacket out of a pannier, and handed a small cardboard box to Athos. "Security guard's a mate of Flea's."

Porthos, as always, was right. The security guard, a wiry Algerian woman with buzz cut hair, took them up in the delivery lift and swiped them into the second-floor exhibition space. Portable display boards stood in front of the Bourbons' pop art collection: three sets of drawings, plus three scale models on plinths. 

Over a hundred competition entries had been submitted a month earlier, anonymously. The brief had asked for iconic luxury housing. The shortlisted designs, and their designers, had been kept a tightly-guarded secret in advance of the presentation today. 

Athos identified one of the entries immediately: Rouge Duplessis Architects. Armand's flamboyant design aesthetic was unmistakable. The other entry was less familiar, although Athos half-recognised the treatment of the main façade and the drawing style. 

"Has anyone else visited?" Porthos asked the security guard.

"Grey haired man," she said. "Eyes like a basilisk. Monsieur le Marketing Director brought him up at the weekend."

Athos and Porthos shared a glance as the security guard left. Armand Jean Duplessis, checking out the competition on the sly. In company with the CEO's husband, no less. Bourbon Developments was a family business and the current CEO, Anne Autriche, had succeeded her father-in-law. Her husband, Louis Bourbon, was a notoriously bad businessman. Rumour said he'd been given the marketing department as a sop to his mother.

Porthos lifted the perspex cube covering their scale model and set it aside. The model showed the surrounding buildings in white, with their proposals in full colour. It was a perfect miniature, every intricate detail delicately formed by Porthos. He'd worked late nights for three weeks to complete it. He was by far the best model-maker. 

Porthos used his thumbs and forefingers to grip the model of their building. He pulled. It slid smoothly out of the baseboard: precision engineered to be replaceable. He clicked his fingers. Athos opened the cardboard box Porthos had given him, uncovering a second model. The new version of their design was, crucially, three storeys taller.

"You realise they could disqualify us for changing the design?" Athos said as Porthos slotted the new model into the baseboard and replaced the perspex cover. 

Porthos shrugged. "What's life without a bit of risk?" he asked. 

"Safe?"

"Boring."

They worked together to replace the drawings on the display boards. The new design -- only made possible by Porthos's research and a discovery he had made after the competition deadline -- was brilliant.

"Where's Aramis?" Athos asked, standing back to admire their work. 

Porthos stilled. Athos's heart sunk. He crossed to the window, peering down for a glimpse of Aramis's scooter. 

"Tell me he's not that stupid."

"He'll be here."

On cue, Aramis puttered around the corner on his yellow Vespa. A leggy blonde, long hair streaming out from below her helmet, rode pillion, visor up. Athos groaned. _Adèle Bessett. Of all the women in Paris, Aramis had to spend last night with Armand's girlfriend._ Aramis parked, flipped up his visor, and turned to kiss Adèle. 

A taxi pulled up on the far side of the road, followed by a delivery van. Armand Jean Duplessis emerged from the taxi. His view of Aramis and Adèle would be blocked by the van... until he crossed the road.

"Crap," Athos said, phoning Aramis. 

Armand leaned down to speak to the taxi driver.

Aramis and Adèle stopped kissing. Aramis reached for his phone.

Porthos came to the window to see what was happening.

Armand handed a banknote to the taxi driver and waited while he wrote a receipt.

Aramis answered his phone. "Athos! Little busy right now."

Armand tucked the receipt into his wallet. The taxi driver rolled up his window and pulled away.

"We can see that," Athos said. "And so will Armand if you don't get out of there now. See the van behind you?" Aramis turned to look. "Armand is behind that van."

Porthos laughed as Aramis and Adèle visibly panicked. Aramis darted across the pavement and into Bourbon Developments' foyer, helmet still on. Adèle tore off her helmet, left it in the scooter footwell and sauntered in the opposite direction, her movements studiedly casual. 

Armand crossed the road, oblivious to them both. He peered at the scooter as he walked past, his eye perhaps caught by the helmet in the footwell. It was unusual to leave anything unsecured by a heavy-duty lock.

Porthos was still chuckling when Aramis reached the exhibition space, sunflower yellow helmet under his arm. 

"Have I got helmet hair?" Aramis asked. His wavy hair looked, as always, artfully dishevelled.

"You never have helmet hair," Porthos said.

"Or else you always do," Athos said. "I'm never sure which."

Aramis clasped Athos's arm in greeting and slid past to kiss Porthos warmly, if briefly. He smelt of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle: Adèle's favoured perfume.

"Good night?" Porthos asked.

Aramis grinned. "Tell you all about it later."

"Did she leave marks?"

"Gentlemen, please." Athos said, cutting across Aramis's answer. "Now is not the time."

Aramis nodded, chastened. He looked Porthos and then Athos up and down. All three of them wore black suits, the unofficial but internationally-recognised architects' uniform. Under their jackets Athos wore a black shirt open at the neck; Aramis a white shirt with narrow sky blue tie; and Porthos a sky blue crew neck jumper. 

Aramis had insisted they all wear a splash of sky blue; the colour they'd chosen for Herblay Fère Vallon's branding. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Athos. Athos lifted his trouser hems a centimetre to display sky blue socks. Wearing matching colours made Athos feel uncomfortably like part of an ageing boy band, but he tolerated it. They all drew strength from the bond between them.

Armand swept into the room. His black suit was beautifully cut. He undid his jacket buttons as he prowled towards them, revealing a flash of crimson from his jacket lining. 

"Gentlemen," he said, inclining his head. His gaze ran over Athos's drawing tube, now containing their original competition entry, and Aramis's scooter helmet. "When will Jean-Armand be joining us? I must congratulate him on Studio Tréville's shortlisting."

Athos clenched his jaw. It was possible Armand didn't know they had entered the competition on their own behalf. Possible Louis Bourbon hadn't told him. 

Possible, but unlikely.

Porthos folded his arms and stared Armand down. "We entered as Herblay Fère Vallon Architects," he said.

"A little hobby project," Armand said, looking away dismissively. "How exquisite." He turned his back and circled the room, doing a double-take when he reached their model. He pointed, outraged. " _What_ is this?"

"Our competition entry," Aramis told him. "Porthos made the model. It's beautiful isn't it?"

"Exquisite, one might say," Athos said.

Armand scowled. Athos felt sorry for him. He couldn't comment on their re-design without admitting he'd already seen the exhibition. 

"The _Plan Local d'Urbanisme_ ," Armand blurted, as two more black suits entered the room. "A building of that height would never be permitted."

Athos put on his best superior smirk and turned to greet the newcomers. _Buro Bonacieux, of course._ Jacques-Michel gave him the briefest of nods before approaching Armand. Armand, scrutinising Athos's drawings, ignored Jacques-Michel. Constance, elegant in black cropped trousers and a long jacket, auburn hair pulled back into a pleat, strode over to Athos. 

"Constance," he said, taking her hands and leaning in for a double air kiss. "I knew I recognised your work. Congratulations." 

She moved on to air kiss Aramis -- four kisses -- then Porthos. Porthos wrapped her in a big hug.

"Double congratulations," he said. "I hear he's finally made you a full partner." Constance hugged back, drawing a glare from Jacques-Michel.

"I'm on the letterhead and everything," she said, grinning and disentangling herself from Porthos. 

The smart click of heels on the marble floor drew everyone's attention. Anne Autriche, flanked by two assistants, strutted to the centre of the space and waited for silence. The three women wore bright colours; peacocks among a murder of architects. Anne's suit dress was exactly the shade of Herblay Fère Vallon sky blue. They couldn't have planned it better if they'd tried. Aramis would, no doubt, consider it a sign from God.

"Welcome," Anne said, spreading her hands wide. She had the slightest hint of a Spanish accent. "You each have twenty minutes: Buro Bonacieux first, then Rouge Duplessis, with Herblay Fère Vallon to finish." She smiled around the room, regally. "I'll ask questions after each presentation. If you want to submit additional information or drawings you have until the end of the week."

Athos breathed a sigh of relief. That probably put them in the clear for changing their design. Porthos winked at him. 

"We will announce our decision at the end of next week," Anne said.

Jacques-Michel Bonacieux, wisely, allowed Constance to present their proposals. Her enthusiasm shone through, as did her talent. Anne's questions focused on the practice's experience, not the design: Buro Bonacieux mostly worked on much smaller projects. 

Aramis grimaced. They had exactly zero experience outside Studio Tréville.

Armand's presentation emphasised Rouge Duplessis's track record. His sneak preview had given him foreknowledge of his competitors' weaknesses. He implied that his was the only safe pair of hands in the room. By the time his twenty minutes were up, Anne was nodding in agreement. 

Armand stalked past the three of them as he returned to the audience. Athos, watching closely, saw his nostrils flare as he passed Aramis. Armand's eyes narrowed, transforming his expression from self-satisfaction into fury. _Shit. He can recognise his girlfriend's perfume too._

Aramis hadn't seen, thank God. He was up first. They needed his charm.

Aramis started to speak in lightly Spanish-accented French. Athos gave Porthos a wry look. Aramis's French was perfect, his accent Parisian. 

Aramis talked about materials, form and light. His hand gestures caressed the audience. He made pouring concrete sound like a sex act. He spoke a line of poetry in Spanish to describe the curve of a column.

Anne Autriche's lips had parted. She hung on his every word. 

Armand Duplessis huffed his annoyance. "This is all very well," he said. "But this proposal cannot be built. It contravenes the _Plan Local d'Urbanisme._ "

Aramis, unfazed by the interruption, handed over to Porthos.

"The site, as you'll know," Porthos said, "was within the seventeenth century Court of Miracles. And in the Court of Miracles, anything is possible..."

# # #

The adrenaline high carried Athos through a celebratory lunch lasting most of the afternoon. They'd totally owned the presentation; they'd vanquished Armand and had Anne Autriche eating out of their hands. 

They toasted Herblay Fère Vallon Architects in champagne none of them could afford and ended up far too drunk to ride home. They pooled their remaining euros for a cab.

Athos reclined in the taxi's back seat after dropping Aramis and Porthos off at their garret apartment. An image of Café Fraternité surfaced. No, not Café Fraternité. Égalité, as he'd seen it that morning. _I can't avoid an entire street forever._ He pictured the smartly-painted windows and bookshelves. _A bookshop. I can handle a bookshop._

He was barely two minutes' walk from the Rue Demoustier. He was sober enough to wonder whether the champagne had affected his decision, and drunk enough not to care.

He knocked on the driver's screen. 

"Drop me here."

At Égalité he pushed open the door then froze in the doorway, winded. The smell of coffee hit him; nearly floored him. He leaned against the door frame, his head down. The sounds, of frothing milk and clinking crockery, sent him back five years. His pulse hammered.

The milk frothing stopped. So did the clinking of crockery.

He swallowed and looked up, to discover everyone in the café -- definitely a café, not a bookshop, despite the bookshelves -- staring at him. 

He nearly ran.

A black woman behind the counter folded her arms and looked steadily at him. Something in her eyes held him, calmed him. He focused. She wore a creamy peasant top under a burgundy apron. Thick curls cascaded over bare shoulders.

He didn't notice the blonde until she spoke.

"We do not usually make strong men quail," she said. "May we assume your melancholy has some other cause?"

Athos straightened, pushing his hair off his face. His cheeks burned. 

"My apologies. I hadn't expected to be so affected. I..." He had never spoken about this, not even to Porthos and Aramis. He steeled himself, and chose a part of the truth. "...I used to work in a café here."

"It ended badly?" the blonde asked.

"You could say that."

The black woman went back to frothing milk. 

"If you've done time as a barista you'll want a flat white," she said, her tone an understated welcome. Relief spread through Athos. He couldn't have handled sympathy. 

"Who taught you to make one?" he asked.

"I taught myself."

Athos raised an eyebrow. She laughed off his doubts.

Athos's phone beeped. A text from Porthos: _Get over here. Armand bloody Duplessis..._

Athos shoved his hand through his hair, sighing. "I've got to go. I'm sorry, I will come back." To his surprise, he meant it.

"Fraternité," the blonde said. Athos stared at her. "The café, I mean. The one you worked in. It was called Café Fraternité, right?"

Athos nodded. 

"Our other partner mentioned it. She knew it before, didn't she, Sylvie?"

The black woman, _Sylvie_ , tilted her head. "She said she didn't know it well, remember, Ninon? Just a passing acquaintance."

Athos's phone beeped again. He backed out of the door.

"I really must..." 

This time he ran, embarrassment combining with worry about his brothers and sending him sprinting down Rue Demoustier.


	2. Conspicuous Immorality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, at Café Égalité, Clarick de Winter is given a commission...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for revenge porn and an explicit photo taken without the character's consent or knowledge.

Clarick's phone, shoved into the back pocket of her skinny jeans, rang. Both her hands were full; Ninon had just loaded her up with three steaming bowls of _soupe au pistou_ for the table in the window. Clarick gave Sylvie a helpless look, widening her eyes cartoonishly. Sylvie laughed at her, but leaned across to help. She slid her hand into Clarick's pocket -- Clarick jutted her hip to push back into the caress -- and pulled out the phone. 

"Armand Duplessis," Sylvie read from the screen.

"Potential client," Clarick said over her shoulder, scooting across the café, careful not to spill the soup. "Stall him."

Ninon took the phone from Sylvie and answered the call. _Merde._ Ninon and Duplessis would infuriate one another. The customers, Italian tourists, wanted to discuss the pistou. Clarick promised to send the chef over and hustled back. She snatched her phone from Ninon, mid-sentence.

"Armand," she said, forcing warmth into her voice.

"Who was that?" Duplessis snapped. He breathed out in an exasperated sigh when Clarick didn't answer immediately. "Let it pass," he said. "I have a job for you. Be here for two-thirty."

He ended the call. 

Clarick stared at the phone. Dealing with Duplessis was never comfortable. But, he paid well, she needed the work, and his patronage might lead to other commissions. The café didn't support all three of them, not with Sylvie giving away as many lunches as she sold and Ninon refusing paying customers most evenings to fill the place with her students or Sylvie's community groups.

Plus... you never knew what Duplessis might ask. It could be fun. She didn't often get the opportunity to be truly wicked.

She shook back her hair, untied her apron, and put on her best smile to charm Sylvie and Ninon into finishing the lunch shift on their own.

# # #

Clarick always forgot how big Duplessis's office was. He'd converted a church: ripped out the pews, put in a new floor, filled the lower level with poorly paid architects and taken the entire top level himself. It smelt of incense. Light flooded through massive grisaille windows. The glass's monochrome patterns -- interlaced foliage and rose buds -- cast shadows across the polished concrete floor.

Duplessis's desk sat at the east end of the space. Visitors climbed a spiral stair at the west and had to walk the full length of the nave under the man's steady gaze. Or, worse, were forced to falter towards a Duplessis engrossed in something more important, hyper-aware of the echo of their own footsteps, terrified of interrupting.

Duplessis was, at least, watching Clarick. She pouted and added some swing to her hips. She hadn't changed her clothes: her bright blue jeans, Breton-striped top and red neckerchief were the only touches of colour in the building. She chose not to stand in front of Duplessis, a supplicant. Instead, she slinked to his side and leant against his desk, facing him.

"You need my services?"

Duplessis handed her an iPad displaying a perspective drawing. She recognised the draughtsmanship first, then the site: Bourbon Developments' empty plot in the second arrondissement. She swiped through the plans and elevations, keeping her face impassive. They were all hand drawn -- very showy; beautifully inked Rotring lines defying the rest of the world's utilitarian CAD drawings.

Athos de la Fère was the best draughtsman she'd ever encountered.

She wondered if he still had a permanent buckle-bruise on his right shoulder from carrying his drawing tube and swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, as the image of his naked back filled her mind. That perfect skin...

"You and Studio Tréville have been shortlisted?" she asked Duplessis.

"It's worse than that. _Herblay Fère Vallon_ has been shortlisted." He rolled the three names around his mouth scornfully. "And they might win. Look at the building heights."

She zoomed until she could read the spot levels. "Well above the height specified in the site's PLU," she said, knowing Duplessis had hoped to catch her out. Let him try. She knew Parisian planning law backwards.

"Three additional storeys," Duplessis said.

"How have they achieved that?" Clarick flicked back to the site plan. "Ah. Yes. Very clever." The front of the site had been laid out as a pocket park, setting the building back a crucial few metres. "They've used the historic building line. It gives them precedent to build taller."

"Your job is to find something to break that precedent."

Clarick looked him in the eyes. "It can't be done," she said. "They've got their research right. The proposal's watertight."

"I want this commission. I _will_ get it."

Clarick considered her options. "How are they going to fund the park?" she asked. "It reduces the building's footprint. The costs won't stack up if Bourbon Developments have to pay for landscaping and maintenance, even with the extra storeys."

Duplessis massaged his temples.

"The Fleur-de-lis Community Greenspace Trust. Porthos du Vallon has talked them into an outline agreement for capital and ongoing costs."

Clarick handed the iPad back to Duplessis and stood. "That, I can break. I know one of the Fleur-de-lis' trustees. Leave it with me."

"One more thing," Duplessis said. "Do something about Tréville's workload. Hold up a few of his jobs, enough to give him cashflow problems. I'd like to see d'Herblay, de la Fère and du Vallon facing redundancy." He flashed her a vicious look. "Perhaps they could follow your example and turn barista to make ends meet."

"Athos de la Fère has family money. You won't see him serving cappuccinos unless he decides to play at slumming it."

Duplessis's eyes narrowed at her bitterness. "You know him?"

"By reputation. We both trained at ENSA Paris-Belleville." She gestured with her left hand, dismissing Athos. "Slowing down Tréville's projects will take time."

"Start with that Spanish monastery he won last month. He only got the job because he sent d'Herblay to Seville to do the presentation. Devout Catholic, trained in Madrid, sinfully beautiful; I bet the diocese ate him up." Duplessis steepled his fingers and caught Clarick's gaze. His grey eyes were scalpel-sharp. "Find out who was riding pillion when he arrived at Bourbon Developments this morning. Some... _conspicuous immorality,_ shall we say, might sour the taste of Monsieur d'Herblay."

# # #

Clarick stopped at a pharmacy on her way to Bourbon Developments. She bought a navy sling that covered her arm from biceps to knuckles; with it on, no-one would be able to tell she didn't have a cast underneath. 

She told the pharmacist it was for a play. 

She told the security guard at Bourbon Developments she'd been knocked off her bike by a taxi. 

"Just round the corner," she said, pointing with the fingers on her "broken" arm in the most pitiful way. "I saw the bastard turn down here, but I didn't get his numberplate. I thought perhaps your CCTV might have caught it."

She left thirty minutes later, Nesrine the security guard's number in her phone and a grainy yet unambiguous printout in her bag. She'd drop it off at Rouge Duplessis and turn in her first invoice.

She wouldn't want to be in Adèle Bessett's high-heeled boots.

# # #

Café Égalité was half-empty when Clarick got back, the lunchtime crowd replaced by freelancers and writers eking out coffees to avoid their lonely apartments.

Ninon, at the till, greeted Clarick with a deep kiss, to the mixed amusement and embarrassment of the customer being served. Sylvie, in the kitchen, pulled Clarick into an embrace that turned into an even deeper kiss. Clarick relaxed into it and braided her fingers into Sylvie's hair. Sylvie smelt of coconut oil shampoo and tasted of Ninon's cooking.

The door from the café banged open. Ninon cleared her throat.

"A soupçon of assistance out here?"

Sylvie and Clarick didn't spring apart. They did, reluctantly, wind down their kiss. 

"I'll sort out the kitchen," Clarick said, eyeing the stacks of dirty pots and pans. Sylvie hated clearing up. "You go help Ninon."

Sylvie and Ninon were both good with customers. Ninon's enthusiasm and curiosity overcame her hauteur as soon as she got chatting. Sylvie's charisma converted one-off visitors into regulars, and often into members of one of her groups. What was it that night -- LGBTQ+ Film Club? Greening the City? Refugee Community Partnership? 

Ninon handed her a demitasse of hot chocolate the moment she emerged from the kitchen. 

"For the ill-humoured teen in the corner," Ninon said. "I'm confident you will brighten his day."

The boy paged through a copy of _Architectural Review_. Ninon had been teasing about his age. He must be in his early twenties. Still a bit too young.

Temptingly pretty, though. All doe eyes and perfect hair. Black shirt, black trousers, black jacket over the back of his chair.

"Architect?" Clarick asked as she delivered his _chocolat chaud_.

"Trainee. Started two weeks ago." 

He didn't look up from his magazine, or smile.

"Which office?" she asked.

"Studio Tréville."

_Interesting. Maybe pretty boy can be useful..._

"You must have a hell of a portfolio; Jean-Armand only takes on the best." The boy looked up at her in surprise. She smiled. He looked gratifyingly dazzled. "Where did you study?" she asked.

"ENSA Toulouse."

"I went to Paris-Belleville."

"You're an architect?" The boy spoke without thinking. Clarick watched him realise his incredulity had been an insult. "I mean, there's no reason you shouldn't be... uh... that is..."

She took pity on him. "I'm a lapsed architect. I co-own the café and freelance as a planning consultant."

He looked around the café, nodding. "Nice. I live on the next street."

"Then you're sure to become a regular." Clarick put out her hand. "I'm Clarick de Winter."

Sylvie, darting past, paused to thread her arm around Clarick's waist and introduce herself. "Sylvie Boden. And that's Ninon de Larroque at the coffee machine."

"I'm d'Artagnan."

"How are you finding Studio Tréville?" Clarick asked. "It can be difficult being the new boy."

The hint of sympathy was all it took. Sylvie darted away and Clarick sat down opposite d'Artagnan as it all came spilling out: how he'd always wanted to work for Studio Tréville, but he wasn't getting to do any architecture-- 

"...I'm the CAD monkey! And I have to make the coffee, and answer the phones, and do the social media. Everyone else is too old to Instagram..."

\--and anyway it wasn't Tréville he'd wanted to work with-- 

"...although Tréville was brilliant in his time, of course..." 

\--but his colleagues are all busy on some private project-- 

"...I'd give anything to work with the three of them. Well, Athos de la Fère, really. I wrote my thesis on him. The Marseilles housing project. Do you know it?"

Clarick nodded. She knew it. 

She heard the adoration in d'Artagnan's voice and was reminded of herself at the same age, blinded by first love. She'd written her thesis on Athos too. Not the one she handed in. The one she inscribed on her heart; the one she added to during every minute they spent together; the one that had become a part of her. The one even fire hadn't burnt out of her.

Jealousy blazed. She would _not_ let Athos have this boy, this younger version of her.

D'Artagnan was still speaking.

"...and I don't know anyone in Paris yet--"

"You know me," she interrupted. "And my shift's nearly over. Why don't you show me your apartment?"

He stared. "Won't your girlfriend mind?"

"Girl _friends_ , plural. Do they look as if they mind?" Clarick nodded at the counter, where Ninon and Sylvie stood with their arms around each other. Ninon made a shooing motion with her free hand, hastening Clarick and d'Artagnan out of the door. Sylvie laughed.

Clarick and d'Artagnan made it to d'Artagnan's bed before falling on each other, pulling at their clothes and fumbling for a condom. Afterwards, d'Artagnan, his shirt unbuttoned but still on, lay in Clarick's arms. She was naked except for her neckerchief. He reached for the knot. She drew away.

"I don't take this off," she said. 

"Not ever?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, full of calculated mischief. "Well, I might." She played with its corners. "If you let me blindfold you with it."

His consent went well beyond enthusiastic.

After that, her plan was easy. She dug out d'Artagnan's phone from his jacket pocket; took a quick dick pic while he was blindfolded, distracted and fully erect; and waited until he fell asleep after their second round. He had logins to Studio Tréville's Instagram, Twitter and Facebook accounts on his phone. She uploaded the photo to all three and left the phone beside him on his pillow, dick pic open.

She knew Duplessis would savour the conspicuousness of this particular immorality. She only wished she could be a fly on the wall when the Archbishop of Seville fired Jean-Armand Tréville.

Athos would never speak to d'Artagnan again.


	3. Un Oiseau Blessé

Athos rang Aramis and Porthos's doorbell then bent, hands on thighs, to gasp for breath. His shirt stuck to his back. His jacket stuck to his shirt. His heartbeat thrashed in his ears. 

He straightened when Porthos opened the door.

"What's wrong?" Athos asked, his breathing more-or-less under control. He pushed sweat-damp hair off his forehead and undid several shirt buttons.

"Couple of things," Porthos said, standing aside to let Athos into the cramped hallway. Porthos had changed into comfy joggers. His eyes lingered on the exposed skin in the vee of Athos's shirt.

Aramis hurtled out of the living room, in jeans and a tee. "Borrow your phone?" he asked Athos, pilfering it from Athos's breast pocket and leaving as fast as he'd arrived. Athos looked a question at Porthos.

"That's one of the things," Porthos said. 

He took Athos's drawing tube and jacket, hung them on the hooks next to the front door, and led the way through to the living room. They found Aramis hunched on the sofa, typing a number from his own contacts into Athos's phone. He glanced up at them as he pressed call. Hope warred with despair in his expression.

"Put it on speaker," Porthos said. 

Aramis hit the button as a male voice, Picardy accented, answered: "Good afternoon, Rouge Duplessis Architects, how may I direct your call?" 

Aramis groaned, cut the connection, and threw both phones across the room. Porthos slid onto the sofa next to him and bundled him up in a bear hug. Athos retrieved the phones, also finding Porthos's phone under a dining chair, and placed all three side by side on the coffee table. He nudged them until they were exactly parallel with each other and with the table edge.

Neither Porthos nor Aramis seemed inclined towards explanation. Aramis had curled into Porthos, his head down. Porthos rocked him slowly, stroking his hair and whispering in his ear. Athos stepped out onto the tiny balcony to give them some privacy. Behind him, Porthos's words dissolved into a soft hum.

Athos gripped the handrail and closed his eyes as the familiar melody hit him: _Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux._ He let himself picture Café Fraternité, as it had been: pure white walls; Arne Jacobsen chairs; glass tables; pools of candlelight. Wildflowers in Alvar Aalto vases. The sign on the door flipped to 'closed'. Blinds drawn against the sodium light outside. The calm after a hectic day. 

_There is no happy love._

Anne stood at the counter, facing away from him. He crossed the café and draped his arms around her. She leant back into his embrace, her dark curls soft on his cheek. He breathed in her jasmine scent and held her close. Françoise Hardy sang. _Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé._

_I carry you within me like a wounded bird._

Anne turned, reaching for him. She tilted his chin down for a kiss. He touched his lips to hers--

Raised voices yanked Athos back to the present. He swayed, dizzy. His white-knuckled hands clenched around the cold iron rail. He released them and flexed his fingers. His throat was tight; it hurt to breathe. He stared down at the street below, clogged with bad-tempered traffic. A discarded newspaper, wind-blown, flapped across a taxi's windscreen and flew into the Seine. Athos lost sight of it against the filthy grey water.

"I love her," Aramis cried.

Athos took a deep breath and went inside. Porthos was sitting on the sofa, his arms folded. Aramis paced up and down the small room: four steps towards the fireplace, turn; four steps towards the kitchen, turn again.

"You love her?" Porthos asked, looking to Athos for support. "Really? Or you love sleeping with powerful women?"

"Gentleman," Athos said. "Tell me what's going on."

"I can't reach Adèle," Aramis said, still pacing. "Her mobile's forwarding to Rouge Duplessis. It's not just my number that's blocked, no-one can get through to her."

 _Right._ That explained why Aramis had commandeered Athos's phone. 

Aramis halted. "I'm going over there."

Porthos put his hands to his head. "You agreed to only go to her apartment when Duplessis was out of town."

"I've got to see her! What if something's happened?"

Aramis looked close to tears. Athos put an arm around him and drew him back down to the sofa, sandwiching him against Porthos. Aramis still smelt, faintly, of Adèle's perfume.

"Whatever has happened, it seems Armand is dealing with it," Athos said.

"And if he's what happened?" Aramis pushed Athos's arm away. "I don't trust that man. I'm going to the school."

"You agreed to _never_ go to her work," Porthos said.

"Porthos is right," Athos said. "Professor Bessett can't risk a scene in front of the faculty and students."

"Poly relationships aren't wrong."

Athos sighed. " _You_ are poly," he said. He paused, wondering if he should soften his next statement. He decided against: " _She_ is cheating."

Aramis crumpled in on himself. Porthos glared at Athos and dropped to kneel at Aramis's feet, taking his hands and rubbing them.

"Athos has a point," he said, gently.

"Adèle's hardly the first Head of School to have an affair," Aramis said.

"Yeah, but none of the others had to worry about the double standard," Porthos said. "She's the first woman Head of School at Paris-Belleville and only, what, the second or third in France? She can't afford a scandal."

"She'll contact you when she can," Athos said. "Leave it until tomorrow, at least."

Aramis sighed and straightened. "You're right," he said. He took three deep breaths, his standard refocusing technique, and dragged a hand across his face. "I need a drink."

"That's my line," Athos said.

Porthos laughed, crisis over. He bounced up and headed to the fridge. "We're all going to need a drink once I tell you the latest from the Fleur-de-lis Trust."

"Tell me that's not the other thing that's gone wrong," Athos said.

"Uh-huh," Porthos said. "Beer or wine?" 

"Brandy?"

"You drank it all two weekends ago," Aramis said. "Remember?"

Athos did remember. It had been... quite a night. 

A phone rang. Porthos, beer bottles in hand, ambled to the coffee table. 

"It's yours, Aramis. Why's the Archbishop of Seville calling tonight?"

" _What?_ " Athos, startled, leaned forward and peered at Aramis's phone. "Why is the Archbishop of Seville calling _at all?_ "

Porthos rolled his eyes. "They've been talking theology. Usually on a Thursday."

Athos frowned at Aramis. "You're not still harbouring thoughts of the priesthood?"

"It was my first vocation," Aramis said -- _not quite an answer_ \-- stretching for his phone and answering the call in Spanish.

Athos accepted a cold beer from Porthos and sprawled back in the sofa, basking in the musicality of Aramis's voice. He loved listening to Aramis speak Spanish, despite understanding barely a word in a hundred. Porthos settled on the floor next to Athos.

Aramis's tone changed, from respect to alarm. He leant forward, snatched Athos's phone from the coffee table, and fumbled with it one-handed. It slipped to the floor. Aramis picked it up and flung it into Athos's lap. 

Athos mouthed _what?_

Aramis gestured unintelligibly. Athos shrugged. Aramis scowled at him.

" _Un momento, por favor_ ," he said into the phone, before pressing it to his chest and speaking to Athos and Porthos. "The Archbishop wants to know why there's a photo of my dick on his TweetDeck."

Athos's mouth dropped open. 

"The Archbishop uses TweetDeck?" Porthos asked. 

"The Archbishop _recognises your dick?_ " Athos said.

Aramis glared at them both. "Just find the office's Twitter, will you?"

Athos did as he was told, trying not to think about Aramis and the Archbishop. The latest tweet from Studio Tréville's account was an image; it took few seconds to load. The three of them crowded around the tiny screen, Aramis re-starting his conversation with the Archbishop. Athos held his breath. 

The photo, when it finally resolved, was most definitely an erect cock. Rather an impressive one. But--

"That's not _your_ dick," Athos said, way too loud.

Porthos chuckled. "I think that's my line," he said, quietly enough only Athos heard.

Aramis laughed at something the Archbishop said. He held the phone away from his mouth and translated: "His Grace wants to know if that was my husband."

Porthos clicked his fingers for the phone. Aramis passed it down to him. Porthos spoke, his tone formal; his Spanish slow and careful.

"What's he saying?" Athos asked Aramis.

"That I haven't yet made an honest man of him. Check the office website for dick pics." Aramis looked disgusted. "I can't believe I just said that."

"Nothing on Studio Tréville's homepage," Athos said. He clicked through the social media buttons. "Crap. It's on Instagram. And Facebook. Two hundred and sixty-nine likes so far." He shook his head. "This is a disaster. Has Tréville been hacked?"

"I doubt Tréville has the passwords," Aramis said. "I think the most junior trainee deals with social media stuff."

"D'Artagnan."

"Do you reckon it's his dick?" Aramis full-screened the photo. "Because: pretty."

"Have you got his number?" Athos asked.

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't mean..." Athos said, his cheeks burning. "I meant, so we can call him and get him to resolve the situation."

"Of course you did." Aramis gave a knowing grin. "Porthos has it. For the five-a-side."

Porthos ended the call with the Archbishop. 

"Porthos has what?" he asked.

# # #

D'Artagnan hadn't answered his phone. Nor had Tréville. Jacques had answered the office landline.

I'm last in," he'd said. "Finishing the Place Malesherbes door schedule. Everyone else left a couple of hours ago."

Porthos, it turned out, had d'Artagnan's address as well as his phone number. They took the Métro, strap-hanging in an overstuffed carriage. The reek of commuter sweat and coffee breath provided an unwelcome reminder of why Athos usually cycled. 

"Tell me about Fleur-de-lis," Athos said. 

"Not a lot to tell," Porthos said. 

"They're reviewing their funding guidelines," Aramis said. 

"They wanna support the regions..." 

"...which means no money for Parisian projects in the next funding cycle."

"Can they do that?" Athos asked. "They said yes."

"They said yes in outline," Porthos said.

"They can completely do that," Aramis said.

_Shit._

They finished their journey without speaking. The carriage rattled; its wheels screeched on their rails. Snatches of opera leaked from the headphones of a petite older woman pressed into Athos's side. _It would be bloody Carmen._

D'Artagnan's concierge let them into the building. D'Artagnan's apartment was on the first floor, up a straight flight of concrete stairs. An ancient racing bike, so rusted its owner hadn't bothered to lock it, stood propped against the wall at the top of the stairs.

D'Artagnan didn't answer his bell. 

Athos tried phoning again. The call rang within the apartment, and kept ringing until Athos hung up. Athos knocked on the door, dislodging slivers of peeling grey paint. Aramis pushed him aside and hammered with his fist. Porthos pushed Aramis aside, and pulled out his lock picks.

"What?" he said, when Athos looked askance. "We need to get in. Either d'Artagnan's hiding, or he needs help."

"Possibly both," Aramis said.

Porthos opened the door. It led into a one-room flat: kitchen units on the left; futon on the right, made up as a bed; coffee mugs and takeaway boxes dotted across the floor. One small window: barred and glazed with grimy opaque glass. One door, presumably to a bathroom. A drawing board in the corner. It smelt of cheap red wine and Nutella.

Aramis stilled, then pointed with his eyes. Athos picked his way through the clutter to the far side of the room. D'Artagnan sat on the floor, screened by the futon, knees to chest and arms wrapped around his legs. He gazed up at Athos, his face wet with tears. He gulped. 

"She changed the passwords," he said. He was clutching his phone tightly, as if he wanted to crush it.

Someone had done this to d'Artagnan, Athos realised. And, through him, to Tréville. Who was the target?

Aramis and Porthos moved to flank Athos. D'Artagnan looked from one to the other, eyes wide in panic, and launched himself to his feet. He shoved Porthos aside, stumbled past them, and out of the still-open door. Porthos gave chase. There was a creak, a series of bumps, and the crash of the front door. Athos opened the window and stuck his head out in time to see D'Artagnan disappear around the corner on the rusty bicycle, hair streaming behind him.

"I couldn't catch him," Porthos said from the doorway.

Athos closed the window. "It's definitely his dick."

Aramis shot him a speculative glance.

"Is that the important point here?" Porthos asked.

"Let me think," Athos said. "Yes. Because posting dick pics on your office's account is a sacking offence."

"He didn't do it," Aramis said. "You got that, right?"

"His dick," Athos said. "His passwords. His -- presumably ex -- girlfriend. His charge of gross misconduct."

Porthos found d'Artagnan's keys on the kitchen counter. "We need to get the pictures taken down before Tréville finds out."

"And before any more clients see them."

They locked the door behind them. Athos's phone rang as they trooped down the stairs.

"Constance," he said. The morning's presentation seemed a long while ago. He reached for his social skills. "You did brilliantly at Bourbon Developments. Anne Autriche loved your design."

Porthos handed d'Artagnan's keys in to the concierge and held the front door for Athos. 

"She loved yours more," Constance said. "That's what I'm calling about."

Aramis stopped on the pavement outside, face turned up to the evening sun, elongated shadow stretching behind him. 

"This is not a great time," Athos said to Constance. Something occurred to him. "You do Instagram, don't you?"

"Um, yes?"

Porthos sauntered to Aramis, twined his arms around Aramis's neck and pulled him up into a kiss. They were, as always, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. A jogger slowed to admire them. She caught Athos's gaze and winked.

Athos replied with a grin and went back to his conversation with Constance.

"How do I take a picture down without the login?" 

"You don't."

Athos sighed, and told Constance the full story. 

" _You let him run away?_ " Constance said, focusing on the wrong part. "You idiots!"

"We tried to stop him," Athos said. 

"Not good enough. Have you thought about how the kid must be feeling? His career might be over before it's begun, and he's been humiliated in front of three men he hero-worships."

She hadn't even met d'Artagnan. "What makes you think he worships us?"

Constance tutted. "Oh, come on, Athos. All Tréville's trainees idolise you. D'Artagnan will be mortified, at best. Destroyed, at worst. What if he does something stupid?"

 _She's right._ "I'll call him."

"As if he's going to answer your calls! Text me his number."

"Constance, you are the kindest woman in Paris."

"And the best architect," Constance said, hanging up without giving him the chance to answer. He thumbed out a sarcastic text, deleted it, tried an admiring text which sounded even more sarcastic, deleted that, and contented himself with sending d'Artagnan's number garnished only with _thank you._

Aramis and Porthos were still kissing. Athos left them to it and went in search of a bench. He found one under a row of plane trees and settled down. They were only one street along from the Rue Demoustier; he'd once known this part of town well. 

_I could go back to Café Égalité. Take Aramis and Porthos for supper..._

He tested the thought. All those years of pretending the Rue Demoustier didn't exist -- could he really drop in, casually, for a flat white and a croque monsieur?

_I promised Sylvie I would._

Aramis and Porthos strolled towards him, hand in hand. 

"What now, fearless leader?" Aramis asked, throwing himself onto the bench next to Athos. Porthos walked past, attention caught by a notice pinned to one of the trees.

 _Good question._ Athos was sick of reacting to bad news. They needed to take the initiative back.

"We have three problems," he said. "Adèle, d'Artagnan's dick, and the funding for Porthos's park." Aramis nodded. Athos continued: "What if Armand Duplessis is responsible for all three?"

Porthos scratched his jaw. "Adèle and the funding, I can see. D'Artagnan's over-exposure? I'm not convinced."

"I wouldn't put anything past Duplessis," Aramis said. "There's something... _unrelenting_ about that man. He and Tréville have been rivals for thirty years."

"At least," Athos said. 

"How does that help us?" Porthos asked.

"I'm not sure," Athos admitted. "Let's sort things out and worry about Armand later. The dick pics are the most urgent. There must be a way of getting access to those accounts. Aramis, look into it."

Aramis bent over his phone.

"That'll take a while," Porthos said. "Have you still got a login for the Studio Tréville website, Aramis? First up, do some damage control. Post an apology on the homepage saying our social media's been hacked, then get rid of the links to Twitter and the others."

"Good thinking," Aramis said, thumbing fast. 

Porthos beckoned Athos. "Look at this," he said, pointing at the poster on the tree. Athos went to see. It was a visual nightmare: clip art tree at the top, rainbow-coloured text in Comic Sans, and a border of emojis. Athos shuddered.

"Stop critiquing the design and read it," Porthos said. 

"Greening the City," Athos read out loud. "Parks for skint people, by skint people. Volunteers, donations and unloved scraps of land wanted." 

"Splendid," Aramis said, joining them. 

Porthos found the Greening the City Facebook page. "Their next meeting's on Wednesday night. What do you say we put in an appearance?" He clicked a link. "It's at a place called Café Égalité."

_Of course it is._

"Eh, look at this," Porthos said. "The café’s run by three women, ok, and they're like a female version of us. One cute and black, one dark-haired and devastatingly beautiful, and one posh."

Aramis preened. Athos glared. 

"I've been there," he drawled. "The blonde out-poshed me effortlessly."

"It's all in the posture," Aramis said, taking Porthos's phone and slouching against the tree. "What about the others?"

"Sylvie wasn't cute in person. She was..." Athos searched for the right word, "...magnetic. The brunette wasn't there." He reached for the phone. "Let me see."

Aramis passed the phone over. The three women stood in front of the counter, arms around each other. Athos's heart stuttered. It couldn't be. 

He backed away, swiping the photo with shaking fingers to zoom in. A cold wave washed over him. Five years, and she'd barely changed. 

The phone dropped from his hand. It fell in slow motion. He closed his eyes.

"Athos?" Porthos said, his voice coming from the far end of a long tunnel. 

Athos continued to back away.

" _Athos!_ " 

Athos snapped his eyes open. A taxi's windscreen filled his vision. Porthos lunged forwards. Aramis hurled himself into a tackle. Athos toppled. Something cracked. Pain exploded. 

Everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in Athos's flashback is _Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux (There is no happy love)_ , sung by Françoise Hardy -- <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nD_oPsjQ4bU>.


	4. Life Drawing

The radiologist summoned a porter to wheel Athos back to the waiting room. The porter, a stout, apple-cheeked young woman who was considerably stronger than she looked, kept up a stream of chatter and navigated the corridors with confidence. 

The brightly coloured wayfinding stripes painted on the floor began to blur. Athos abandoned his part of the conversation and concentrated on keeping his eyes open. The smell changed from industrial-strength cleaning fluids -- masking something Athos tried not to identify -- to hand sanitiser, vomit and drunks. The porter pushed him through a final set of double doors and out into Accident and Emergency. 

Aramis and Porthos, perched on uncomfortable-looking chairs, leapt to their feet, scattering questions.

"One at a time," Athos said, holding up his good hand, the left. Its heel was grazed -- he'd hit the tarmac hard, or so he'd been told -- and a reddish bruise was spreading. 

"Can we take you home?" Aramis asked.

"Not yet," the porter said, helping Athos out of the wheelchair. Aramis and Porthos hovered, concerned but ineffectual. Athos, his knees swollen and beginning to stiffen, hobbled to a seat. Every step jarred his right arm, bound in a sling. He eased himself down and nodded his thanks as the porter hastened away. 

"I need a plaster cast," Athos said, gesturing at the sling. There was a pause. No-one needed reminding that Athos drew with his right hand. "I have a simple fracture of the ulna," he said, quoting the radiologist. "Six weeks in plaster, and another six weeks before I regain full strength."

_Six weeks without drawing. Without being able to so much as hold a pencil._

A rugby-shirted man in the far corner of the waiting area wept loudly, sucking in deep breaths between sobs. Two girls with cornrows, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sang an infinite round of Frère Jacques. Their extended family argued with an exhausted doctor.

_Twelve weeks before I can get back on my bike._

Aramis spoke first. "It's about time you learnt to use a Rotring left-handed," he said, attempting a grin. "We'll make a proper architect of you yet."

Porthos elbowed him in the ribs. "We've talked about this," he said. "We don't discriminate against northpaws. It's not Athos's fault he was born that way."

Athos almost laughed. Pain bloomed in his arm. He folded around it, head bowed.

"Athos?" 

Aramis slid into the seat next to Athos and put an arm around his shoulders. Porthos knelt at their feet and stroked Athos's left hand, his big fingers warm and gentle. Athos leant into Aramis.

"What about other injuries?" Porthos asked.

"Only cuts and bruises," Athos said. "Nothing else is broken."

"Except Porthos's phone," Aramis said. 

Athos looked at Porthos for confirmation. Porthos shrugged. 

"Doesn't matter." He frowned. "What happened? Was it something to do with that café?"

Athos shut his eyes. He couldn't think about Anne. He certainly wasn't ready to talk about her. 

# # #

Clarick wore black. 

Armand Duplessis's summons had been characteristically brusque: _My office, 9am Tuesday. Wear a suit._ The suit had nearly made Clarick late -- Sylvie had woken up as Clarick was putting the jacket on and lured her back into bed, murmuring "I like architects."

Clarick reached Rouge Duplessis at one minute to nine and was shown to the north transept meeting room. She slipped into the only empty seat, at Duplessis's left hand, and craned to catch a glimpse of his agenda.

"Take the minutes," Duplessis ordered. 

The meeting ended two hours and sixteen handwritten pages of notes later. Duplessis stood to shake hands with everyone and usher them out. Clarick dropped her fountain pen and flexed her fingers, grimacing. She poured lukewarm coffee from a vacuum flask and waited until she and Duplessis were alone.

"What was that about?" she asked. It had been a pre-start meeting for a project she'd had nothing to do with. 

Duplessis waved a dismissive hand. He prowled towards her. "I dislike taking minutes."

She stared. "You brought me here to be your _secretary_?"

Duplessis slammed his hands onto the table. Clarick jumped, then forced herself to relax. Duplessis loomed over her. "I brought you here to do a job. The minutes were a bonus."

Clarick would be damned if she'd look up to Duplessis. She pushed herself to her feet.

"What's the job?"

"I need evidence of Professor Bessett's activities."

"Ah. You're behind the anonymous complaint?" Duplessis looked steadily at her, neither confirming nor denying. "And the press leak?" Duplessis still didn't respond. "No matter. She's accused of requesting sexual favours from female students in return for admission. What do you have?"

"One of the girls she encouraged: Fleur Baudin. I employed the girl as an office junior, to help her pay her way through school. I had no idea Professor Bessett had taken an... _unprofessional_... interest in her."

Clarick flicked her hair back, unimpressed by his play-acting. _Save it for the disciplinary hearing._

"And what do you expect me to get from Mlle Baudin?"

"Everything I need to finish Adèle Bessett."

# # #

Athos endured the enforced idleness of convalescence as long as he could: about a day and a half. He went back to work at lunchtime on Wednesday. It had taken him most of the morning to shower -- plaster cast wrapped in a bag -- and get ready. He wore his only short-sleeved shirt, in grey linen, and a navy sling. The bruises on his hands had turned a matching dark blue. 

Those on his knees were nearer indigo, and safely hidden by suit trousers. He'd decided against slitting the sleeve of his jacket to get it over the cast, in part because he had struggled to use the scissors left-handed.

Tréville gave him a level stare. "Should you be here?" 

Athos continued to his own workspace, tucked into a corner of the open-plan studio, focusing on moving without a limp. He put his satchel down on the desk, glanced at the half-finished perspective on his drawing board, and switched on his Mac.

Behind him, Tréville sighed. "It's good to have you back."

"You may not think so by the end of the day," Athos said. "I can't hold a pen, I can't do site visits, and you could measure my bad mood on the Richter scale."

Aramis stuck his head out of the kitchenette. "You're always grumpy. Who'll notice the difference?"

"Call the site agent at Place des Reflets," Tréville said. "There's a problem with the planar glazing."

Athos spent the afternoon on the phone: interrogating the site agent, berating the structural engineer, and barking commands at the glazing sub-contractor. Between calls he untied his sling and settled his broken arm on his desk. Porthos made a cushion of his jumper and slipped it under the plaster cast. The cashmere was down-soft. Tréville brought him an espresso before leaving for a client meeting. 

Aramis wandered over about three-thirty, Pantone markers in hand. He settled next to Athos and began sketching on his plaster cast. Athos, embroiled in an argument about a glass fin detail, watched him work, enjoying the smell of the pens. Aramis drew with precision, his line confident. He created a montage of Athos's favourite Corb buildings: the Villa Savoye butting up against the Unité d'Habitation; the Maison Guiette leading into the museum in Tokyo and the Chandigarh Secretariat. Athos wasn't certain he'd ever seen Aramis draw so many straight lines; Aramis favoured flowing curves. Athos was touched.

Aramis dropped a kiss on Athos's head, and ambled back to his own desk. Athos -- aggressively disputing the lead-in time for a bespoke supporting bolt -- wasn't surprised when Porthos took his place.

Porthos turned Athos's arm so he could get at the underside and lifted a cheap fineliner from the jar under Athos's drawing board. He outlined a panoramic window-framed view and settled down to fill in the detail, his cross-hatching delicate despite the plaster's bumpy surface. His drawing stretched from elbow to wrist, leaving the plaster in the palm of Athos's hand blank. Athos wondered why. The skyline of Paris, as seen from Athos's flat, came to life under Porthos's pen: rooftops, chimney pots and landmarks. 

Athos could identify the exact viewpoint. Porthos hadn't drawn the view from the terrace or the living room. It was the view from Athos's bed. 

Porthos gave Athos a cheeky smile when he finished, his dimples flashing. Athos's cheeks warmed. Porthos winked and sauntered away.

He returned with Aramis and d'Artagnan as Athos finished his last call of the afternoon. Athos hung up the phone and rested his head in his left hand. He watched the others from the corner of his eye. Porthos and Aramis were all but dragging a reluctant d'Artagnan. 

"Am I so terrifying?" Athos asked, straightening.

"You _have_ spent all afternoon intimidating people," Aramis said. "It hasn't been the most soothing background music."

"Serge is running a sweepstake," Porthos said.

"On how long it would take me to resolve the problem?" Athos asked. 

D'Artagnan barked out a laugh. "On how many people you'd make cry."

An image of the last time he'd seen d'Artagnan -- running away, in tears -- hit Athos, closely followed by the memory of Constance's anger. Athos had forgotten. He'd been too wrapped up in his own concerns.

"About that," he said, speaking quietly. D'Artagnan scowled. "I owe you an apology. We should have handled things better. I'm sorry." Athos paused, mind racing, guilt curdling in his stomach. "I'm not even sure how we handled it in the end. Did we handle it...?" He looked an appeal at Aramis.

"Did we handle d'Artagnan's dick?" Aramis asked. Porthos sniggered. 

"You know that isn't what I meant," Athos said. 

"Yeah, we handled it," Porthos said. "The pics are down, and we told Tréville they came from an unknown hacker. He never needs to know any different."

"Good," Athos said. "I am sorry, d'Artagnan."

"Apology accepted," d'Artagnan said. "I'm sorry too. It should never have happened."

Aramis clapped him on the back. "We've all made mistakes. There was this police officer I dated..."

"Aramis!" Athos and Porthos said together. D'Artagnan was far too young to be exposed to _that_ story.

Aramis huffed, but subsided. Porthos cuddled him.

"May I...?" d'Artagnan said, pointing at Athos's cast. 

_So that's why Porthos left a space._

"I'd be honoured," Athos said. 

D'Artagnan ducked his head, took a seat next to Athos, and pulled out a Papermate Flair felt tip. Athos, not wanting to make the lad nervous, looked away. He remembered something else he'd neglected. _Shit._

"Aramis, has Adèle phoned you yet?"

Aramis shook his head. "She's been suspended. It made the papers. I assume that's why she had Duplessis screening her calls."

Aramis didn't sound as worried as Athos would have expected. 

" _Suspended?_ For what?"

"A totally unsubstantiated rumour," Aramis said. "There's no truth in it. It'll blow over within the week."

# # #

Clarick got Fleur Baudin drunk. She chose a noisy basement bar near Rouge Duplessis, blew out the candle on their table, and plied the girl with double vodka tonics while sticking to straight tonic water herself. Fleur was pretty: gorgeous lips, bottle-blond hair, and cheap chain-store clothes she was young and thin enough to carry off. 

"Professor Bessett has been so kind to me," Fleur said. "She'd never do anything bad."

"She got you a job?" 

"Two jobs."

Clarick signalled the waiter for another round. "Two jobs? Rouge Duplessis and...?"

"I help with Professor Bessett's evening classes. She teaches art at a community centre. She's such a good person."

"And your job...?"

The drinks arrived. Fleur took a long swig, ice cubes clinking against her teeth, and giggled. "I model. Nude. For the life class."

This was too easy. Duplessis didn't deserve it. 

"Has Professor Bessett ever drawn you?" Clarick asked, squeezing the wedge of lime into her glass and licking the juice off her fingers.

"No, she's the teacher. She doesn't draw! Except to demonstrate." Fleur giggled again. "There's this one man who's hopeless: he comes every week and never gets any better. One time Professor Bessett ended up doing his entire drawing for him, so she could show him her technique. It was really good!" 

Fleur emptied her glass, swayed on her bar stool, and looked expectantly at Clarick. Clarick beckoned the waiter. "Bring us some food as well," she told him. "Bread and olives. Plenty of bread."

She couldn't let the girl keep drinking on an empty stomach.

"Do you want to see Professor Bessett's drawing?" Fleur asked, holding out her phone. "I took a photo."

Job done.

# # #

Athos stared at the sketch on the palm of his hand. It showed an elegant contemporary extension on a fifteenth-century castle. He didn't recognise it. 

"Where is it?" he asked.

D'Artagnan smiled, proud and nervous. "Château d'Annecy."

"The fine art museum?" Athos looked closer. He'd seen a contest brief for the museum.

The extension's simplicity showed off its perfect proportions. The structure looked like Aramis's work. Athos glanced at Aramis and Porthos. They both looked smug. 

"This is your competition entry?" Athos asked.

"It's only a concept sketch so far."

"It's good."

The lad blushed. 

"Go on then," Porthos prompted him.

"I wondered..." d'Artagnan said. "That is, I hoped..."

Athos waited. D'Artagnan didn't seem able to finish the sentence. 

"Hoped we might work together?" Athos said. "The four of us? We'll schedule some time later this week."

D'Artagnan's face lit up.

# # #

Clarick collected crockery, wiped down tables and re-shelved books, making the most of an unexpected lull. She had nearly an hour before Sylvie's Greening the City comrades were due. 

A car drove past outside, broadcasting its music at full volume. Françoise Hardy. _Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux._

One of Athos's favourite songs.

Clarick shut her eyes and leant on the counter. She reconfigured the café in her mind: removing the bookshelves garlanded with fairy lights, painting white emulsion over the trompe l'oeil dome on the ceiling, and replacing the cosy, mismatched furniture with designer minimalism. 

She felt Athos's arms around her. His tweed jacket scratched her bare biceps. The jacket was one of his favourites; it had been his father's, and smelt of brandy and the old man's pipe tobacco. Clarick leant back into Athos. 

She smelt burning and shivered.

_It's only the candles on the tables._

She turned, reaching for Athos.

_When had she realised? Had she known?_

She smelt burning. 

_She saw Athos in the doorway._

Her heart raced. She drew breath to scream--

The kitchen door slammed. Clarick started, opening her eyes. Ninon ran to her and pulled her tight, crooning reassurance and endearments. Clarick relaxed into it. Her tears darkened Ninon's apron from burgundy to black. Ninon shepherded her into the kitchen.

Clarick emerged much later to find the café full of urban gardeners and Sylvie flirting outrageously with Aramis d'Herblay and Porthos du Vallon. Clarick froze. She couldn't see Athos. D'Herblay and du Vallon were seated at a two-person table. 

_He isn't here._

She moved to the coffee machine and began working through the backlog of orders clipped to the board. Anything to stay busy. The machine's noise drowned out Sylvie's banter and calmed Clarick. Ninon ferried drinks to customers as fast as Clarick could make them. From his body language, d'Herblay risked complimenting Ninon. Her reply, delivered in her most aristocratic tones, was audible even over the milk frother:

"Your charm won't work here. We are quite immune."

Clarick smiled. She poured the last latte and turned off the steam to listen in. Sylvie, predictably enough, disagreed.

"I'm not immune," she said. "I like architects."

"What do _you_ like?" d'Herblay asked Ninon.

Ninon looked down her nose at him. "Green eyes."

Du Vallon looked up, interested. "What would happen if you met a green-eyed architect? Would you fight over them? Rock-paper-scissors or arm-wrestling?"

"They share," Clarick purred, ready to be noticed.

D'Herblay and du Vallon turned their heads, startled. Athos was clearly the green-eyed architect they'd had in mind. 

_Hasn't he told them anything about me?_

There was no recognition in their glance; no sign of appraisal beyond an inspection of her eye colour and the normal appreciation of her beauty.

_Evidently not._

Athos had never been one for verbal communication when repressing his emotions was an option. And when wasn't it an option, for Athos?

Not that Clarick was any better.

D'Herblay's phone rang. Sylvie and Ninon moved to serve another table. 

"Unknown number," d'Herblay said. "For you?"

Du Vallon looked at the screen. "I don't recognise it. Bung it on speaker."

"You really need to get a new phone." D'Herblay placed the phone on the table and answered the call. "Aramis d'Herblay."

"M. d'Herblay, Anne Autriche here."

D'Herblay raised an eyebrow. "Mme Autriche, how delightful to hear from you." His voice had deepened and gained a Spanish lilt. Ninon threw him a scornful look as she passed. 

"Please call me Anne. I do hope I'm not disturbing you, M. d'Herblay."

"Aramis, please. It is my pleasure to be entirely at your disposal."

Ninon rolled her eyes. Clarick took surreptitious notes on an order pad as Anne Autriche offered d'Herblay a consulting commission on one of Bourbon Developments' projects. Her excuse was his dual qualification in structural engineering and architecture. Her reason, judging by the warmth in her voice, was quite different. They set up a breakfast meeting at Mme Autriche's house.

"I don't think we should meet at the office," Mme Autriche said. "Not during the competition. I wouldn't want it to look as if I had a favourite."

"Yeah, right," du Vallon muttered. "Because getting an invite to her home isn't favouritism at all." He fidgeted with their table's LED tea light, flicking it on and off, his brow furrowed. D'Herblay glared at him and ended the call graciously. 

Sylvie tapped a spoon against a wine glass for silence.

"Greening the City convenes in five minutes," she announced. "Anyone who doesn't want to accidentally enlist in the garden army would be safest to leave now."

Clarick took the cue to retreat to the kitchen, pocketing her order pad. She could report to Duplessis while Sylvie and Ninon were occupied. The door had nearly swung shut behind her when she heard his footsteps.

She held the door open a crack and turned to press her eye to the gap.

It really was him. Athos, back on Rue Demoustier. He stood behind du Vallon, his right arm in a navy sling. Clarick put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She'd worn an identical sling on Monday, to visit Bourbon Developments. She had the dizzying sensation of her body being nothing but a voodoo doll for his.

She clenched her fists, digging painted fingernails into her palms and clinging to the pain. 

"You still haven't told us how many!" d'Herblay called.

"How many what?" Athos said. His voice carried straight to her. Her knees buckled. She slumped to the floor. 

"How many people you made cry today. Serge needs to know."

Athos doffed an imaginary hat. "Two."

Clarick corrected him in a whisper, her cheeks wet.

" _Three._ " 


	5. People Leave

Athos paused outside Café Égalité. What if Anne were inside? What would he do? What might _she_ do?

_I need to be here. For Herblay Fère Vallon._

He peered through the window. No sign of Anne. It took all his courage to open the door and limp nonchalantly inside. A quartet of smiles rewarded him: Porthos, adorably dimpled, jumping up to fetch a chair; Aramis, dark eyes crinkling at their corners; Sylvie's blonde partner, welcoming; and Sylvie, her face lighting up the room. He smiled back.

"You still haven't told us how many!" Aramis said. 

Athos, still beaming at Sylvie, had to ask Aramis what he meant. 

"How many people you made cry today. Serge needs to know."

 _Serge's sweepstake, of course._ Athos mimed a courtly bow. "Two," he said. 

Sylvie's face went blank. She spun away and marched to the coffee machine, spine stiff. Athos only had a moment to wonder what he'd done before being drawn into Aramis and Porthos's banter. 

The blonde delivered Athos's coffee: an overblown monstrosity capped with whipped cream and caramel drizzle; the worst insult Sylvie could give him.

"Is there a coffee somewhere underneath this?" Athos asked.

"Not one worthy of the name," the blonde said. "I believe Sylvie added both hazelnut _and_ vanilla syrup. And used decaf."

Porthos chuckled. "She really doesn't like you."

"I don't like anyone who thinks it's clever to make people cry," Sylvie said, sweeping past. She took up position where everyone could see her, declared the Greening the City meeting open, and passed round a handwritten agenda.

Athos's cheeks burned as he thought back over the afternoon. _Shit. Sylvie's right. I'm a prick. I deserve the sugar-laden coffee from hell._ He hung his head and fiddled with his teaspoon. The sounds of the meeting drifted around him. Anne, mercifully, didn't appear. 

Porthos pushed his chair out with a scrape. Athos started, and tuned back in. 

Porthos thanked Sylvie for letting him speak and began to describe his pocket park. He talked with passion, borrowing Sylvie's order pad and biro to whip out thumbnail sketches of leafy views and secluded corners. People listened intently, nodding over the sketches as he handed them out, occasionally offering ideas about plant varieties or positioning. 

Aramis sat with his chin up and shoulders back, watching people's reactions, his eyes gleaming. 

Athos looked around the café, cataloguing the changes. The design aesthetic was neo-classical library meets family kitchen. Chains of fairy lights sparkled; fake tea lights on the tables flickered. Shelves of books mellowed the acoustics. The burgundy on the menus and aprons added warmth. Everyone else's coffee smelt good. Porthos's voice filled the space, deep and authoritative.

Athos's phone beeped. 

He fumbled in his pocket, apologising, embarrassment making his left hand even more clumsy than usual. Sylvie glared. Aramis laid a reassuring hand on Athos's shoulder. 

The text was from Constance: _Remember I want to chat about the competition?_

He thumbed out a reply: _Still not a good time._

_Hope you're not making someone cry again ;)_

Athos sighed. _Actually..._

_Athos!_

Athos dug the tip of his teaspoon into the deliquescing whipped cream of his coffee before replying. _I've been well and truly chastised._

_Nice to see Porthos and Aramis showing some sense._

_Not them. Sylvie. I only met her on Monday. She hates me already._

_Wise woman. I like the sound of her._

Athos, startled into a smile, sent Constance an out-of-character emoji and switched off his phone in time to hear Sylvie splitting the meeting into three brainstorming groups.

"You lot think about fundraising," she said, pointing. "You guys: sources of free stuff; and the rest of you, volunteer logistics. If it happens, this'll be a long-term commitment."

Porthos helped re-arrange the tables and sat with the fundraising group. Aramis joined the volunteer conversation. Sylvie led the discussion about freebies. Athos listened in, not sure he could be useful.

"Aren't you going to participate?" the blonde asked, bringing him a flat white.

"I'm not fit for company today," Athos said, taking the cup. The coffee's scent hit him. _Oh, thank God._ He inclined his head in gratitude and sipped. "This might help. What about you?"

"We each have our specialities, beyond running the café. Community organisation is Sylvie's."

"Yours?"

"I teach."

Athos took a deep breath. "And your other partner?"

"Clarick?" -- _she's using her middle name?_ \-- "She's an architect. She consults for all the top practices." 

The blonde stood straight, chin up and chest out, her smile satisfied. Athos recognised the expression -- he'd seen it on Aramis a few minutes earlier. 

_She's proud of Anne._

His stomach lurched. He remembered what that felt like. How good it felt.

He remembered what came after.

He spoke as casually as he could. "Who is she working for at the moment?"

"Rouge Duplessis." The blonde laughed. "My parents are clients. Rouge Duplessis is building them another bank. It amuses me that they pay Duplessis, Duplessis pays Clarick, and Clarick uses the money for this." She gestured at the earnest discussions going on around them. " _Maman_ would be appalled."

"A bank? You're a de Larroque?"

The blonde put out her hand. "Ninon de Larroque. A de Larroque only by name. My parents disinherited me. I'm not proud of the connection."

Athos took the proffered hand, looking Ninon directly in the eyes for the first time. "Athos de la Fère. You're proud of Clarick." It wasn't a question.

"You really do have green eyes, don't you?"

Athos gaped. Was his jealousy so obvious? 

Ninon raised her eyebrows. "Your friends mentioned a green-eyed architect. They seemed to think Sylvie and I might be interested."

"That was before we met him again," Sylvie said, striding towards the kitchen. She softened the words with a half-smile. Her curls bounced. 

Athos smiled back, already smitten, despite the punishment coffee.

# # #

The kitchen door swung open. Clarick, curled into a ball next to the fridge, screwed her eyes tightly shut. Running footsteps; an embrace; a hint of coconut shampoo. Clarick tensed, then relaxed into Sylvie's arms. She'd cried herself out a while ago. 

Sylvie knelt and rubbed Clarick's back, murmuring meaningless words. Clarick pushed her face into Sylvie's shoulder and let the comfort percolate. She didn't move until Sylvie shifted minutely and Clarick realised she'd lost all feeling in her legs.

She sat up, stretching, and winced as pins-and-needles stabbed. Sylvie waited, letting Clarick decide whether she wanted to speak.

She didn't want to.

She needed to.

"I stopped going to counselling," Clarick said, drying her eyes with the back of her hands. Sylvie brushed Clarick's hair off her face. Clarick captured Sylvie's fingers and held on tight. "I thought it wasn't helping, because I couldn't bear to tell the counsellor anything difficult. I'd spend entire sessions deflecting. Talking about the wrong things. I decided there was no point going." Clarick ventured a smile. "But it turns out not talking at all is worse than talking about the wrong things."

"If it would help to talk to someone who loves you..."

Clarick hissed and pulled away. Sylvie released her, looking as if she'd been slapped. Clarick's eyes prickled. Why couldn't she accept love? She knuckled the tears away and reached for Sylvie. 

"There are things I need to tell you," Clarick said. She shivered. "I'm not sure I can."

"It's ok," Sylvie said. "I'll be here whenever you're ready."

Clarick took a deep breath. _One thing._ The counsellor, way back at the beginning of the sessions, had talked about the healing journey starting with a single step. Clarick had snorted, and made up a story about teenage shoplifting. _If I could tell Sylvie one thing..._

"I had a flashback earlier," Clarick said.

"Ninon said."

"The fire..." Clarick halted. "It wasn't..." _Come on._ "It was..." _Just say it._ "It didn't happen at..." Clarick stopped. She raised her head, disgusted with herself. When had she become a coward? She was strong.

"It happened here," she said. "The fire was here."

Sylvie grabbed Clarick's arm, too tight, her mouth dropping open. "Here? At Café Égalité?"

"Café Fraternité. I still don't understand how it caught. I did the calcs myself. The fire load was negligible."

Sylvie shook her head. "You know I love it when you speak architect, but this isn't the time. What does that mean?"

"It means I never believed it could happen." Clarick pictured Athos in the doorway. Pictured herself turning and seeing him; finally understanding the tweed-clad arms around her belonged to the wrong brother. Felt Thomas's grip tighten. Saw the betrayal on Athos's face in the seconds before he turned and ran. 

It still didn't make sense. Why hadn't he let her explain? Why hadn't he trusted her? One mistake shouldn't have broken everything. 

"It means there shouldn't have been enough to burn," Clarick said. She wasn't talking about the fire.

Sylvie stroked Clarick's hair. Clarick closed her eyes. She concentrated on the gentle rhythm, the tingle of fingers on her scalp.

"Sylvie!" Ninon's shout, from the café, cut through Clarick's reverie. 

"Dammit," Sylvie said.

"You should go back."

"Ninon will manage."

" _Sylvie!_ " Ninon sounded frantic.

Clarick and Sylvie looked at each other.

"I should go back," Sylvie said. They both laughed. "And you should go home."

Clarick nodded. "I'll nip out the back. Tell Ninon?"

"That you've gone?"

"And about the fire."

Sylvie caressed Clarick's cheek, skimmed a feather-light kiss across her lips, and whispered into her ear: "My brave, good Clarick."

_If only I were._

# # #

The dull ache in Athos's arm grew to a throbbing agony. He hobbled to Porthos's side. 

"These guys are amazing," Porthos said, opening his arms to include everyone in the café. "This is gonna be way better than getting traditional funding." He squinted at Athos. "You ok?"

"The painkillers are wearing off," Athos said. "I'm going home."

"You want me to come with?"

"No. Tell Aramis?"

Porthos nodded and clasped Athos's shoulder in farewell. 

Outside, the evening air was cool. It eased the pain a little. Athos turned left. He glanced down the alleyway leading to the kitchen door, straight into Anne's eyes. They both froze.

The moment stretched--

Her eyes were still the most beautiful sage green. And still far too knowing.

Athos and Anne stepped into the shadows of the alley, agreeing without words, as they always had. Athos leant against the wall, cradling his broken arm. Anne walked away, whirled, strode back. She still smelt of jasmine. Her mouth...

He couldn't stop staring at her mouth.

She moved closer.

He shut his eyes, tilted his head.

Their lips met.

A shiver ran down his back. He wove his left hand through her hair and pulled her close. His nerve-endings tingled. His tongue touched hers. His pulse accelerated. Her hair was soft, the press of her body against his side perfect: warm and strong; familiar yet exciting. She bit his bottom lip. He gripped her nape and deepened the kiss. She moaned into his mouth--

He pulled away, panting.

"When did you return?" he asked.

"To Paris? Unlike you, I never left. To the café? Eighteen months ago." She took a small step back. "Ninon found it; declared it perfect. I knew, even before I saw the address, it'd be our café."

"Not _'our'_ café. There is no ours, Anne."

"Clarick."

"Why do you use your middle name?"

"Why do you?"

They stopped, glaring at each other. Both breathing heavily. Faces close enough for another kiss. 

"What exactly do you do for Armand Duplessis?" 

She leant on the wall next to him. Gave him a sidelong look. "I'm a planning consultant, Athos. My job is to research potential obstacles and find solutions."

"Am I an obstacle to Armand?"

"Perhaps more of an annoyance."

She wore an emerald green neckerchief. Its presence nudged Athos into realising he'd noticed something in the café. He hadn't understood at the time. LED tea lights. Strings of fairy lights. 

"No candles," he said.

Anne -- _Clarick_ \-- stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. She walked away.

Athos watched her go, his chest hollow, emptied of everything but regret.

# # #

Athos arrived late on Friday morning, still struggling to shower and dress with his cast. Tréville was shut in the meeting room -- a glass box at one end of the studio -- with a grey-suited woman. The meeting didn't seem to be going well: the woman was standing, gesturing two-handed, while Tréville sat and hid his eyes.

Athos stopped at Samara's desk.

"Accountant," Samara said, shrugging.

_That's not good._

Porthos crashed through the door, wearing Athos's cycle helmet and carrying Athos's bike. 

"It's in," Porthos announced, slotting the bike into the gap behind the plan printer and unclipping the helmet. He'd been to Bourbon Developments to deliver their revised proposals for the park: a blend of community enthusiasm and diligent research into small grants. "Handed it to one of the CEO's assistants myself. And picked up your bike while I was there."

"I can see that. No sign of Mme Autriche, then?"

Porthos gave a wry grin and placed Athos's helmet on his desk. He smelt of bike lube and hot Porthos. "Aramis is particularly captivating first thing in the morning. I wouldn't be surprised if their breakfast meeting stretches until lunchtime." 

"He does realise he's supposed to be winning work, not seducing the client?" Athos said.

"Aramis doesn't make a distinction when he switches on the charm."

Porthos proved to be right. Aramis strolled in after two, looking smug, scooter helmet dangling from his hand. He hung it off Athos's anglepoise and struck a pose.

"Herblay Fère Vallon is officially in business. I have our first job!"

Everyone in the office, except one-handed Athos, applauded. Athos stamped his feet. Porthos whistled. Aramis bowed.

"Six months' consulting, on a day rate, invoicing monthly. You know what that means."

"Cashflow," chorused Athos and Porthos. 

Tréville, still trapped with his accountant, lowered the meeting room's blinds with a clatter. They took the hint, and quietened down. Athos, Aramis and Porthos gathered around Athos's desk. Everyone else went back to work.

"Well done," Athos said. Even if they won the Bourbon Developments competition, they wouldn't be able to invoice until the design was fully signed off, which might take weeks; and their second invoice would have to wait until they'd submitted the planning application, weeks or months later. A regular income would tide them through. "Have you got a contract?"

"We won't sign until after the competition winner is announced. For the look of the thing."

"Delivery for M. d'Herblay," a baritone voice called. A muscular, lycra-clad cycle courier stood in the doorway, his dark skin gleaming with sweat. He held out a book-sized parcel. 

Aramis grinned and stalked across the room, eyeing up the courier. Athos looked heavenwards. Porthos chuckled. 

"You know how much he loves presents," Porthos said. 

"Particularly when they're delivered by muscle-bound black men."

"What's not to love about that?" 

They watched the courier write his number on the parcel and hand it to Aramis. 

"How _does_ he do it?" Athos asked. 

Porthos gave him a disbelieving glance. "Beyond being off-the-scale sexy, you mean?"

"Who's off-the-scale sexy?" Aramis asked, ripping his parcel open. He perched on Athos's desk.

"Your courier friend," Athos said, deadpan. 

Aramis shrugged. "I didn't notice," he lied. "Cyclists are a little off-putting. The smugness. The lycra." He tapped Athos's bright green helmet. "The dayglo colour scheme."

"The rock-hard thighs," Porthos said, with a heated glance at Athos. "The flexibility. The stamina."

Aramis grinned. "Well. When you put it like that..." He tore off the courier's number and slipped it into his breast pocket, before peeling back brown paper to uncover a sketch book, one of the wire-bound brown-cover Clairefontaines he'd always favoured.

"It's mine," Aramis said, brow furrowed. He flicked through the pages. "It's the one I keep at Adèle's." He held it up to show them a charcoal drawing of Professor Bessett laughing, head thrown forward, tendrils of hair across her face. A slip of tracing paper fell out of the book. Aramis plucked it off the desk, read it, and passed it to Porthos.

Porthos read it, growled, and handed it to Athos.

The note was handwritten; an architect's rapid-stroked left-hand: _It's over. Armand knows. He could end my career. Don't contact me._

Porthos held Aramis tight. Aramis's face had crumpled. His hands fisted into Porthos's shirt. Athos watched helplessly. He wished he could bring himself to tell his friends about Anne, about the conversation he'd had two nights earlier.

_Did she cause this? Is Aramis's love an obstacle for her to kick aside?_

A movement from the meeting room caught his attention. Tréville, showing the accountant out and turning to the office. 

"Your attention, please." Tréville said, clapping his hands. "Office meeting, now."

They filed into the meeting room, speculating in whispers. Architects took the chairs or sat on the table, assistants leant on the walls; twenty-two people in a room designed for eight. Athos, Porthos and Aramis wedged themselves into the doorway, Aramis in the middle. D'Artagnan, opposite them, nodded a greeting.

Tréville put his hands flat on the table and leant forward.

"The bank has withdrawn our overdraft." There was a collective intake of breath. "And given us until the end of the month to repay the balance." The questions started. Tréville held up a hand for quiet. "It's not long enough. We can't do it."

This time, no-one spoke. No-one caught Tréville's eye. Athos listened to the hum of computer fans from the main office, the distant drone of traffic, the pounding of blood in his ears.

 _Did she cause_ this _?_

Porthos broke the silence: "Why?"

Tréville scrubbed his hand across his face. "There's a rumour Studio Tréville is insolvent, that I'm facing bankruptcy." He looked up. "There isn't a word of truth in it."

Aramis shifted. "There's a kernel of truth," he said, turning an accusing stare on Tréville. 

"This has nothing to do with the Savoy JV," Tréville said.

"Not nothing," Aramis said. "Savoy's why you have an overdraft."

"It was five years ago, Aramis!" Tréville said.

D'Artagnan looked a question at Athos. _Later_ , Athos mouthed.

Tréville folded his arms. "This is not about the past. It's about what's happening right now. The online security breach made clients nervous. These lies might scare them off entirely. We need to find a way of fighting back, clearing our reputation. Ideas?"

Aramis's body thrummed with tension. Porthos whispered urgently to him. Athos swallowed.

"I know who's behind the rumour," he said. Twenty-one open-mouthed faces turned to him. "A woman, working for Armand Duplessis." He gestured an apology at Tréville, at their colleagues. "It's aimed at the three of us, not Studio Tréville. Armand wants to win the Bourbon Developments competition and we're in his way."

Tréville looked grim. "What makes you so sure? Armand Duplessis has been trying to put me out of business for three decades."

"This isn't an isolated incident," Athos said. "This woman wrecked the funding for Porthos's park and destroyed one of Aramis's relationships." 

"What?" Aramis said, his voice tight with hurt and anger. He rounded on Athos. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I..." 

Athos had nothing. Why hadn't he told them? Shame. Cowardice. The futile hope his fears might not be true.

"Love," Porthos said, reaching for Aramis. Aramis dodged. "This isn't Athos's fault."

"No," Aramis said. "It's Tréville's fault too. His mistakes over Savoy made the studio vulnerable."

"Aramis!" Porthos said. 

Aramis pushed past Porthos and out of the doorway, shoving Athos aside. Pain flared. Athos clutched his arm. Porthos glanced between Athos and Aramis's retreating back. The street door slammed behind Aramis.

"Go after him," Athos rasped.

Porthos held his gaze for a moment. Athos nodded. Porthos ran.

# # #

Athos stumbled through the rest of the day. Tréville threw them all out of the meeting room and spent the afternoon pacing and making calls. Aramis and Porthos didn't return. They were scheduled to meet d'Artagnan about the Château d'Annecy at four-thirty. D'Artagnan chose to go ahead without them.

Half an hour in, Athos found he was enjoying it. Yes, thinking about design without Aramis and Porthos was like eating _escargots_ with chopsticks. Yes, sketching ideas left-handed was slow and frustrating. Yes, it was hard to concentrate over the tumult of self-recrimination filling his head.

But, d'Artagnan was promising. He was clever and talented, he learned fast, and he had the beginnings of skill. He was a pleasure to work with.

Constance interrupted near the end of their hour.

"I'm here to apologise," she said. She had dark circles under her eyes and had twisted her hair into an untidy bun, held in place by a propelling pencil. She played with her necklace, wrapping it around nervous fingers. 

D'Artagnan rose to offer her his seat, brightening. "My saviour! What could you possibly have to apologise for?"

Constance bit her lip. "It's the competition, Athos. We've stolen your idea." She collapsed into d'Artagnan's chair, head hanging. D'Artagnan hovered behind her, hands reaching towards her hair but stopping before making contact. He pulled up another chair, careful not to crowd Constance.

"Tell me, Constance," Athos said. "I promise you, it won't be the worst thing I've heard today."

In answer to her interrogatory head-tilt he gave her the edited highlights: the office meeting, Armand Duplessis's campaign against them, Professor Bessett's Dear John letter. Then he groaned.

"I'm doing it again," he said, facepalming. "Three times you've tried to talk to me this week, and each time I've made it all about myself."

"About you and your manpain," Constance said.

D'Artagnan laughed. 

"Constance, I'm sorry," Athos said. "Tell me about this heinous theft you've perpetrated."

"It's the park idea. We've nicked it, and redesigned our building with more storeys. Jacques-Michel insisted. Except," she grimaced, "we haven't got a park because he was worried the client wouldn't be willing to maintain it, and he couldn't figure out how to get funding. We've got hard landscaping instead."

"Impeccably designed hard landscaping, I'm certain," Athos said.

Constance's shoulders loosened a little. "It is. I've created a knee-high maze. It's all perfectly-placed granite chips and beautifully-proportioned concrete walls."

"Hampton Court meets Zen meets brutalism," d'Artagnan said. "Nice."

"Armand Duplessis would never steal someone's design," Constance said.

"True," Athos said. "He'd wreck careers and reputations, but has too much pride for plagiarism."

"Unlike Jacques-Michel."

"You're too good for him, Constance. When are you going to quit and come to work with us?"

"When you've got reliable cashflow and have vanquished your evil nemesis." Constance tugged the pencil from her bun and shook her hair loose. D'Artagnan licked his lips. Constance didn't notice. "Who is this mystery woman that's making your life a misery?"

Athos took a deep breath. _I need to tell people the truth._

"Anne Clarick de la Fère, as was," he said. "Not that she ever used my name."

Constance's eyes widened. "You're _married_?"

Athos nodded. "She's going by Clarick de Winter now."

D'Artagnan covered his mouth with his hand. Constance's gaze flew to him. "But that's your--"

Constance broke off. D'Artagnan shoved himself to his feet, toppling his chair. Its crash echoed around the studio.

"Athos," d'Artagnan said. His face was white, his eyes watering. "I swear I didn't know."

He backed away, then turned and fled. Constance gave Athos an apologetic look before following.

_That went well._

Athos blinked back tears and looked at the empty desks where his friends should have been.

_I've lost everything._

_Again._


	6. Quartet of Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely readers for the comments and kudos. I couldn't do this without you!
> 
> Content warning: mention of past (canon) attempted rape.

#### Bourbon Developments: the competition announcement

Athos arrived fashionably late. The lift was crowded; he pressed himself into the corner and concentrated on avoiding eye-contact. The woman next to him smelt deliciously floral; the man next to her sported an admirable Harris tweed tie. 

Athos was wearing the expected black suit, with a white shirt and black tie, and a black sling. He'd had his jacket sleeve cut off and hemmed above the plaster cast. He kept the jacket buttoned, despite it being a balmy evening. 

The lift's doors slid open. A melody drifted in -- Athos hummed along to a few bars until he could place it: one of Mozart's Haydn Quartets -- a counterpoint to the babble of well-bred conversation. Bourbon Developments' second-floor exhibition space had been transformed. A string quartet played near the entrance. Display boards no longer hid the oversized Hockneys, Lichtensteins and Warhols. Lemon trees in pots scented the air, their bright fruits bringing out the yellows in the art: blondes, diving boards and explosions screaming for attention.

A lawn had been laid over the marble floor. Athos tested its spring with his brogue. Real grass, not astroturf. A canopied dais at the far end held two elaborate chairs and a lectern. White-clad waitstaff circulated with trays of champagne flutes. Athos snagged one and meandered towards the dais.

Anne Autriche and Louis Bourbon held court in the middle of the room. The stiffness in Mme Autriche's shoulders, and the fifty centimetres separating husband and wife, might be explained by the presence of Louis Bourbon's mother, Marie de' Medici, holding Louis' arm and smiling up at him. The smile didn't reach her eyes, and it certainly didn't extend as far as Mme Autriche.

Jacques-Michel Bonacieux circled the central group, failing to insinuate himself. He smoothed down his jacket and glowered at Constance, deep in conversation with Tréville and blind to Bonacieux's ill-will. Constance wore designer black, as buttoned-up as Athos.

Aramis and Porthos, hip to hip, stood with a trio of elegant older women. Porthos's smile masked boredom; Aramis's held an edge of malice. They both wore a dash of sky blue: Porthos's bow tie and Aramis's belt. Athos wished he could join them.

Mme Autriche's slinky evening gown was lavender. Athos refused to brood over it.

_God does not send messages via Anne Autriche's choice of colour scheme._

A murmur ran through the room. Athos turned to see Armand Duplessis in the doorway, Professor Bessett on his arm. She wore fifteen-centimetre heels and was still a smidge the shorter. He wore immaculately tailored black and a self-satisfied smile. He glided towards Athos. The crowd parted before him.

"On your own, Athos?" Armand said. He looked pointedly towards Aramis and Porthos. "The world believed you three inseparable."

"Things change." Athos bowed over Adèle Bessett's hand. She smiled down at him, mischief in her eyes and a Wedgewood cameo pinned to her lapel, its blue a glimmer of support. Athos tilted his head to Armand. "Sometimes faster than you'd believe."

The string quartet reached the end of their piece and laid down their bows. The room quietened. Anne Autriche and Louis Bourbon climbed the steps to the dais. Louis reached for Anne's hand. She evaded his grasp and stood at the lectern.

" _Mesdames, Messieurs, bonsoir,_ " Anne Autriche said, her voice clipped. "Thank you all for joining us. Before we start proceedings our marketing director, Louis Bourbon, has an announcement to make."

Marie de' Medici, at the front of the crowd, looked on approvingly. She caught Armand's gaze and nodded. Armand very nearly smiled.

_That can't be a good sign._

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### One week earlier: Friday afternoon

Clarick, in ballet flats, padded soundlessly across Armand Duplessis's concrete floor. Duplessis posed at his desk, head down, a study in concentration. He waited until she got within a couple of metres before acknowledging her presence with a pre-emptory halting gesture. She stopped, amused. 

The office stank of SprayMount. Before ascending to the solitary splendour of Duplessis's office Clarick had caught a glimpse of scurrying assistants putting together a mood board. Her own mood was dangerous, ignited by Athos identifying her weakness. _Does he think naming what scares me means he knows me?_

She would not be mastered, not by fear and certainly not by Athos.

Duplessis finished reading his email and beckoned. She stayed put, arms crossed, and watched his expression ease from vexation into admiration.

"You've made an auspicious start," Duplessis said.

"Tréville's reputation is shot," Clarick said.

"I trust the wound will be mortal. However, I need you to do me one further service..." He looked at her, heavy lidded. "Put an end to Herblay Fère Vallon's absurd attempt to win my competition."

"It's already done," she said.

Duplessis touched his fingertips together and bared his fangs. "Tell me."

Clarick swiped through text messages to find her latest conversation with Nesrine, Bourbon Developments' security guard. Nesrine had turned out to be well worth cultivating. She'd overheard, and passed on, a fascinating argument between Anne Autriche and Louis Bourbon. Louis had won the argument.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Bourbon Developments: the competition announcement

Athos wondered if Louis Bourbon had been dressed by his mother: matching tie and handkerchief; pinstriped suit; hair slicked back. It wasn't the marketing-guy look he usually affected. It was more CEO-in-waiting.

Anne Autriche stood aside, lips pressed into a thin line. Louis gripped the lectern with one hand and tapped the microphone with the other. The crowd recoiled from the detonation.

"Can everyone hear me?" Louis asked. 

Armand leaned in to Athos. "How exciting," Armand said. "What could Louis's big announcement be?"

Athos arched one eyebrow. "I'm riveted," he drawled.

Louis grinned his goofy grin, earned a disapproving glance from Marie de' Medici, and schooled his expression into seriousness. "I regret to say that Bourbon Development's actions have caused a potential conflict of interest." All good humour left his face. His eyes protruded. "It seems we have commissioned one of the shortlisted architects on another project, during the judging period." 

The crowd's indrawn breath masked Armand's quiet chuckle. 

"Well, well," Armand said. He curled his fingers around Adèle's hand and raised it to his lips, keeping his gaze on Athos.

On the opposite side of the room Aramis had tensed. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned away from Porthos. Porthos planted his legs wide and folded his arms. 

Louis continued. He addressed his words directly to Aramis. Aramis looked at the floor. 

"Everyone here at Bourbon Developments is committed to good governance," Louis said. "In order to avoid any perception of bias we..."

Louis bowed to include Anne in the "we". She lifted her chin and refused to catch his eye.

"...we have decided to disqualify the practice in question."

The room stilled. 

"Herblay Fère Vallon's entry has been thrown out."

Voices rose. Louis stepped back from the mic. He gave Anne an ugly look of triumph. Porthos laid a hand on Aramis's shoulder. Athos downed his champagne and clicked his fingers to summon the nearest waiter.

Armand radiated satisfaction. 

"How unexpected," Armand said, his tone contradicting his words. "Might I offer you some advice, Athos?"

Athos, new glass of champagne in hand, angled his head a scant couple of degrees. It could be read as assent.

"Next time you choose a partner," Armand said. "Find someone who respects the sanctity of marriage." 

Armand glanced pointedly over Athos's shoulder. Athos assumed he was looking at Aramis, until the scent of jasmine reached him. Athos turned. Anne -- _Clarick_ \-- approached, her steps footpad-silent on the grass, her smile icy.

Armand's eyes gleamed.

_Is there anything the man doesn't know?_

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Six days earlier: Saturday morning

Athos's phone rang. He groaned and buried his head in a pillow. It continued to ring. His head pounded. He reached out and patted the bedside table, then the floor beside the bed, without finding the bloody thing. Why wasn't it going to voicemail?

The ringing cut out. 

Athos breathed out and sank back into the pillows.

The ringing began again.

_Fuckety fuck._

He sat up, too fast. Red-hot pain ripped through his temples. Cold sweat prickled across his chest. His stomach churned. He gulped and staggered, naked, for the bathroom. The ringing stopped and re-started three times while Athos threw up. He swore half-heartedly at it between heaves. When he'd finished retching he rested his forehead and his cast on the cool porcelain of the WC and swore whole-heartedly.

He crawled out of the bathroom and followed the ringtone. A trail of discarded clothes led from his bedroom through the living room: boxers, socks, amputated shirt, one cufflink, and -- finally -- trousers, their pocket vibrating. He extricated the phone, stabbed at the volume button until the damn thing stopped shouting, and collapsed onto his back on the floor, breathing heavily. 

Seven missed calls. Aramis.

Athos sent a text: _Stop making loud noises._

His memory, clouded by the hangover, nudged him. He thumbed out a second text: _Also, you're not speaking to me._

A few seconds later the screen lit up with another incoming call from Aramis. Athos declined it.

 _Give me fifteen minutes,_ he typed.

He levered himself to his feet, swaying, and leant on the wall. He looked at his cast. He couldn't face mucking around with a plastic bag so he could shower. Instead, he dragged himself along the wall and back into the bathroom, filled the sink with cold water, and plunged his head in. 

_Shit._

The chill magnified the throbbing in his temples. It hurt his eyes, even through lids squeezed tightly shut. It made his ears ache. 

He blew a stream of bubbles, tightened his left-handed grip on the rim on the sink, and surfaced. He shoved his hair out of his face, rinsed his mouth under the tap, and straightened. 

And wobbled.

And threw out his good arm for balance.

And straightened.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror. The shadows under his eyes were deep violet: the same colour as his battered knees and the buckle-bruise on his shoulder. Everything else was fish belly white. He shuddered and looked away. Water beaded at the tips of his hair and dripped onto his neck. 

He shuffled through to the bedroom still naked, unrolled his yoga mat, and lurched into the first form of his morning Tai Chi routine, the one-armed version he'd developed since the accident. He nearly fell on the first move; wavered through the second and third; and found equilibrium at the thirtieth.

Ten minutes later, leaving the flat began to seem possible. He pulled on jogging bottoms and called Aramis.

"We're going into the office," Aramis said. "You too."

Athos pulled his phone away from his ear to check the date before replying. He didn't think he'd lost an entire weekend, but needed to be sure. 

"It's Saturday," he said.

"We'll buy you breakfast."

"It's _Saturday._ " 

Aramis laughed, far too loud. Athos flinched. 

"Shush!"

"We won't have jobs to go to on Monday if we don't do something," Aramis said. "Get your arse in gear."

"I thought you were supposed to be charming in the morning."

"This _is_ me being charming. I've forgiven you and Tréville and now I'm fixing everyone's problems _and_ offering to get breakfast."

"Forgiven?" Athos could hear the need in his voice.

Aramis paused, long enough to worry Athos. "I'm working on it, my friend. Breakfast at Café Égalité?"

_Fuckety fuckety fuck._

"Didn't I tell you anything?" Athos said, dry.

"You were too busy repressing."

Athos sighed. "The woman," he said.

"The one working for Armand Duplessis?"

"She's one of the trio in Café Égalité."

"Dark-haired and devastating?"

"Of course." Athos closed his eyes. "Also: the woman?"

"Dark-haired and devastating?"

"We have a history."

"In a nostalgic, good-old-days, when-I-were-a-lad sort of a way?"

"No. She broke my heart and killed my brother."

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Bourbon Developments: the competition announcement

"Clarick," Athos said.

"Athos."

Athos was both relieved and saddened when the passion he'd felt in the alleyway didn't kindle. Perhaps the heat between him and Anne had finally burnt out, leaving only bitterness and ashes. They air kissed, not touching, under Armand Duplessis's watchful eye.

"What a delectable reunion," Armand said. 

The other Anne, Anne Autriche, crossed the dais to the lectern. She had the stage to herself; Louis Bourbon, having taken his revenge on Aramis, had returned to his mother's apron strings. 

"I have a couple of other announcements before we can move onto the main business of the evening," Anne said. "But, first, I'd like to invite onto the stage the Director of the École Nationale Supérieure d'Architecture de Paris-Belleville, Professor Adèle Bessett."

Armand stiffened, blinking. Athos turned away to hide an incipient smile.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Six days earlier: Saturday morning

Athos marched through the Jardin des Tuileries, swinging his good arm, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He'd arranged to meet Aramis and Porthos at Rochette's _Comptine,_ mainly because of the sculpture's alternative name: _Un, deux, trois, nous_ \-- one, two, three, we. 

_I can do this._

Athos turned off Grande Allée and into the tree-lined shade of Allée de Castiglione. He breathed in the scent of cut grass. His friends were already waiting, hand in hand. They settled onto a bench. Porthos sat in the middle and put an arm around each of them, oblivious to stares from passers-by. Aramis, true to his word, had brought coffee and croissants. Athos accepted his triple espresso and rejected the food. Aramis curled his legs under him and fed mouthfuls of croissant, messily, to Porthos. Pigeons, drawn by the scattered flakes of pastry, strutted and cooed.

Athos talked. Each word soared from him, his burden taking flight. 

He talked about opening Café Fraternité: newly wed and newly redundant, the financial crash reverberating through the architecture world. About his and Anne's romantic dream of creating the perfect coffee shop. About their one sun-dappled summer. 

About the night of the fire.

"You caught your wife with your brother?" Porthos said, cupping his hand around Athos's neck. Athos lent into the touch, remembering. 

Thomas, wearing Athos's jacket. Thomas, embracing Athos's wife. Thomas, turning, his smile victorious.

Athos, eviscerated. Silenced.

"He had his arms around her. I..." Athos reached for Aramis's hand. "I didn't stay to ask questions. It hurt so much. It wasn't the first time Thomas had taken someone from me. Not even the second. He was everyone's favourite. I think..." Athos looked away, unable to bear the compassion in Aramis's eyes. "I'd always expected it to happen. Seeing them together confirmed everything I knew about my own worthlessness." 

Porthos sucked in a breath, ready to defend Athos from himself. Aramis quelled him with a flick of his fingers. 

"I returned two hours later," Athos said. "The café was burnt out. Anne had been taken to l'Hôpital de la Pitié-Salpetrière. Thomas had been arrested, on suspicion of arson and attempted rape." Athos steadied himself. "I went to Thomas." 

There. He'd told them the worst. He'd chosen his brother, chosen the contemptible creature he'd always been around Thomas, over Anne and his better self.

The rest tumbled out: "Anne discharged herself that evening, and disappeared. I saw photos of her burns..." He touched his neck. "Thomas was charged. He committed suicide in custody before the trial. Some days I blamed Anne. Some days I blamed myself. Most days I drowned the whole fucking shambles in alcohol. Jean-Armand saved my life when he offered me a job at Studio Tréville."

Athos stopped to catch his breath. Aramis and Porthos looked steadily at him. Athos searched for disappointment. He found only love. He smiled, dizzy with relief.

"Speaking of Tréville," he said. "Shouldn't we be getting to the office? We have an heroic rescue to plan."

Porthos rumbled a startled laugh. 

"That's it?" Aramis said. "You've finished talking about your feelings and now you want to move on?"

"Precisely," Athos said, standing. He'd exhumed his skeletons, but he couldn't cope with the post-mortem. Not yet. 

"You know we're gonna come back to this?" Porthos said.

"I'll prepare my evasive manoeuvres accordingly," Athos said.

For all his refusal to emote, he rejoiced when they sandwiched him in a hug.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Bourbon Developments: the competition announcement

Athos admired Professor Bessett's poise at the lectern. 

"Oscar Wilde said there was only one thing in life worse than being talked about: not being talked about. As someone who has been talked about a lot this week, I had my doubts." 

Adèle paused as laughter rippled through the audience. 

"I'm delighted to say something positive has come out of it," she said. "For those of you not aware, my programme to increase diversity in the student body at ENSA Paris-Belleville has proved... controversial. My motivations have been questioned and I've been the subject of personal attacks. However, I've also received messages of support and some very practical backing." She bestowed a smile on Anne Autriche. "I'm overjoyed to announce a group of developers, led by Mme Autriche and Bourbon Developments, have set up an endowment to fund both the programme and my Chair."

Adèle stopped to lead a round of applause. Anne Autriche, seated in one of the grand chairs on the dais, acknowledged it with a wave.

"We will have the resources," Adèle continued, "to significantly increase the number of students from under-represented groups in next year's intake. We have been able to make an immediate advance by hiring two new part-time tutors, both practising architects, to demonstrate our commitment to diversity at all levels within the school: Constance Bonacieux and Porthos du Vallon."

Adèle pointed them out and the crowd applauded again. Armand looked as if he'd swallowed one of the decorative lemons. 

Adèle finished with graceful thanks to Anne Autriche. She wove her way through the crowd, accepting compliments and congratulations. Athos felt the stress pouring off Armand. Adèle reached his side as Anne Autriche started speaking again.

"Our next announcement is linked..." Anne Autriche said.

Adèle leant into Armand. Only Athos and Anne Clarick were near enough to hear her words. Athos caught a whiff of her perfume: Chanel Coco Mademoiselle. He'd forever associate it with Armand's stunned gape.

"Do you understand what corporate funding means in academia?" Adèle asked. Armand twitched. Adèle smiled. "It means I'm bulletproof."

She crossed the room, kissed Aramis briefly but thoroughly on her way past, and took up a place next to Constance. Constance patted her hand. Armand flexed his fingers. The vertical lines bracketing his mouth deepened. Athos took an unworthy satisfaction in the man's discomfort.

"...it concerns Constance Bonacieux," Anne Autriche said.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Six days earlier: Saturday morning

Clarick, Sylvie and Ninon walked to Café Égalité together, half an hour before opening time. Sylvie strode ahead. Clarick and Ninon, arm in arm, followed in her wake. 

A woman was waiting for them, leaning against the front door and reading on her phone. She was very pretty. Her auburn hair curled loose down her back. She wore wide leg trousers and a waistcoat in soft grey moleskin -- Clarick yearned to stroke it -- over a coral blouse.

"I need to talk to you," the pretty redhead said. 

"Which of us?" Sylvie asked.

The pretty redhead pointed at Clarick. "Her." 

"And you are?" Clarick asked, hoping her two worlds weren't about to collide. 

"Constance Bonacieux."

_From Buro Bonacieux. Another of Armand Duplessis's rivals. That's not good._

They left the closed sign on the door and the blinds down. Clarick, Sylvie and the Bonacieux woman settled around the table nearest the counter. Ninon went through to the kitchen to start her prep for the day. 

"It's about what you did to d'Artagnan," the Bonacieux woman said. 

"D'Artagnan?" Sylvie asked, looking at Clarick for information.

"Sulky teen," Clarick said, voice steady despite a jitter in the pit of her stomach. "Shampoo-advert hair. Came in on Monday for hot chocolate and the _Architectural Review._ "

"I remember." Sylvie grinned. "Left with you, and a dazed expression like he couldn't believe his luck."

"His luck changed," the Bonacieux woman said, her voice hard. She handed her phone to Sylvie, a Storify of Studio Tréville's Twitter account on its screen. Clarick checked the dates on the tweets: Monday afternoon. Sylvie scrolled through picture after picture of glittering skyscrapers and modernist tower blocks.

"Male architects," she said. "Always compensating for something." She swiped, reached d'Artagnan's dick pic and collapsed with laughter. 

The Bonacieux woman snatched her phone back. "It's not funny."

"It's agitprop genius," Sylvie said, between cackles. "It's _hilarious._ "

Clarick's heart swelled. Sylvie was extraordinary. 

The Bonacieux woman cracked a guilty smile, looking down, her hair curtaining her face. "It's a little bit funny," she admitted, before pushing her hair back and donning a stern expression. "That's not the point. _Milady_ " -- heavy sarcasm -- "de Winter posted it without permission. It could have ruined d'Artagnan's career."

Sylvie glanced at Clarick, brow creased. "It's your baby architect's dick?"

"Uploaded without consent," the Bonacieux woman said. She flicked to a saved tab on her phone and read out a phrase: "That makes it the 'willful violation of the intimate private life of another'."

"Clarick?" Sylvie said, quietly.

"What do you want?" Clarick asked the Bonacieux woman.

"I want you to stay away from d'Artagnan. He won't report this because of Athos. I will, if you ever lay another finger on the kid."

"I won't go near him. I've finished that job."

"Job?" Sylvie asked, louder. "Clarick, what is this? What have you done?"

"I was hired to discredit Studio Tréville. Amongst other things."

Sylvie hissed through her teeth. "Through non-consensual dick pics?"

"Through a variety of techniques. Some more creative than others."

"This isn't ok."

Clarick felt suddenly cold. She steadied herself.

"I won't stop working for Armand Duplessis," she said. She fought the urge to make a dramatic exit. She had to believe she could make this right, and to do that she needed to talk honestly to Sylvie.

The Bonacieux woman's phone pinged. Clarick and Sylvie, staring at one another, ignored it. 

"Can we discuss it?" Sylvie asked. Her tone was soft, but there was an edge Clarick couldn't identify. Disappointment, maybe. Or judgement.

"I like the work," Clarick said. _Judge that._

The Bonacieux woman gasped. Clarick turned on her, ready to unleash a bitter tirade. She stopped herself in time. The woman was staring at her phone. The blood had drained from her face. She let the phone fall. It skittered across the table.

"I can't believe he'd do that," the Bonacieux woman said. 

Clarick and Sylvie looked at each other, differences temporarily forgotten. Sylvie shuffled her chair closer to the Bonacieux woman and put an arm around her shoulders. Clarick looked at the phone. It showed a formal invitation to a champagne reception at Bourbon Developments. Perspectives of the three shortlisted buildings decorated the invitation.

"Who'd do what?" Sylvie asked.

Clarick focused on the drawings. They only showed two designs: Rouge Duplessis's, and two versions of the Herblay Fère Vallon proposals -- one with Athos's sublime draughtsmanship, one without. The one without had clumsier massing and less successful proportions, and a Buro Bonacieux logo.

"That's not my design," the Bonacieux woman said. "My _fucking_ husband has submitted a bad copy of Athos's entry."

# # #

Athos, Aramis and Porthos arrived at the office to find Tréville sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. He wore the same brown-striped shirt he'd had on the previous day. He smelt sour. His eyes were bloodshot. Athos counted twelve empty coffee mugs.

"What are you three doing here?" Tréville asked.

"We've got an idea," Porthos said. 

"Two ideas," Aramis said.

"You won't like either of them," Athos said. 

"Do I ever?" Tréville said, grimacing. "Aren't you quitting anyway?"

"We'll be staying part-time until Herblay Fère Vallon gets more work," Aramis said. "We need the money."

"And I'm planning to steal some of your clients," Porthos said. "Can't do that if you lose them."

Tréville turned a weary look on him. "Alright," he said. "What's your brilliant idea?"

D'Artagnan presented himself at Athos's desk a couple of hours later. Athos looked up from the spreadsheet he was wrangling. D'Artagnan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not meeting Athos's eye.

"You wanted to see-- _is that Sofia Martinez?_ " d'Artagnan said.

Sofia Martinez, _Le Monde_ 's legendary photographer, had converted the glass-walled meeting room into an impromptu studio -- white backdrop, big lights, silver umbrellas. Aramis, in his element, was posing with Porthos. 

"Her assistant brought a wardrobe consisting entirely of grey t-shirts and hats," Athos said, a little dreamily. Porthos was wearing a skintight tee with the sleeves rolled to expose his biceps. Aramis had on a fedora and a t-shirt with a deep vee at the neck, revealing a hand-sized patch of chest hair. 

Athos's left hand itched to touch it.

His right hand just itched. He wriggled his fingers and cursed the cast.

"Why's she here?" d'Artagnan asked.

"She's wanted to shoot Aramis for years," Athos said. "Sends him flowers every six months or so in the hope of wearing him down. Aramis finally agreed to a profile piece about Herblay Fère Vallon, provided _Le Monde_ also runs a profile on Studio Tréville." He nodded towards Tréville. Their boss was being interviewed by an unshaven older man, an audio recorder on the desk between them. Tréville had been home to shower and change and looked his usual formidable self.

"So why aren't you in there?" d'Artagnan asked. "If it's an article about Herblay Fère Vallon?"

Athos leaned back in his chair. "Martinez is doing portfolio shots at the moment. I don't fill a t-shirt as well as those two."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, looking as if he might disagree. Athos was profoundly grateful when he didn't. Instead, d'Artagnan rubbed his hands down his trouser legs.

"Look, Athos, I'm--"

"It's ok," Athos said. He found he meant it. "You weren't to know who she was."

"Are we good?"

"We're good."

Feelings dodged, Athos turned back to his spreadsheet: the studio's cashflow forecast.

"We're going for total transparency," Athos said. "Posting all the accounts online, plus Tréville's personal tax returns. That plus the _Le Monde_ piece might convince clients to stick with us. I need you to social-media the shit out of it."

"Accounts and tax returns?" said d'Artagnan. "It's hardly clickbait."

"Find a way."

"How many years?"

"Six."

D'Artagnan sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Six years of spreadsheets. Jesus." He stilled. "Hang about. Six years. That includes the joint venture, the one that freaked Aramis."

"Savoy. Yes."

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

_Perfect. More emotionally-fraught revelations. Because this week can still get worse._

"It's Aramis's story to tell," he hedged.

D'Artagnan gave him a stern glare. "You promised."

Someone rapped on the street door. Athos exhaled. _Thank you, God._ He scuttled to open it, moving faster than he had for days. 

"Constance?" 

Streaks of mascara scored her cheeks. Athos ushered her inside. She let go of her bag. It slumped to the floor beside her. Athos drew her into a hug. She nestled into his chest; he pressed his face into her hair. D'Artagnan flapped around them, picking up Constance's handbag, proffering tissues and offering coffee.

Constance pulled back a whit. "Got anything stronger?" she asked, voice raw.

"Tréville keeps a bottle of Janneau behind his Viollet-le-Duc," Athos said. 

They shut themselves in the kitchenette, to keep their drama out of Tréville's interview, and drank the Armagnac from mugs. D'Artagnan sat on the worktop, legs tucked up. Athos leaned against the fridge. Constance paced. She made sweeping arm gestures as she spoke. Her fury surged.

Athos listened, determined not to interrupt this time.

Constance had almost talked herself out when Porthos opened the door, his expression grave.

"Athos, you need to see this," Porthos said, holding his new phone out. "Remember Flea's friend, the security guard at Bourbon Developments? She overheard a row between Anne Autriche and Louis Bourbon. It's..." he shook his head. "You better read it. We're screwed."

Athos read Flea's text message. _Disqualified?_ The disappointment crashed into his chest, suffocating him. His brain didn't shut down. It sped up. He made connections. He smiled.

"Constance, I have a proposition for you," Athos said. He looked at her: tear-stained and dishevelled. "But you're going to need your photo taken first."

Constance's stream of profanity was remarkable.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Bourbon Developments: the competition announcement

Athos watched Duplessis as Anne Autriche spoke. 

"Buro Bonacieux's shortlisted entry was designed by Constance Bonacieux," Anne Autriche said. "Since then Buro Bonacieux has, within the rules of the competition, entirely changed the design, to one _drawn_ by Jacques-Michel Bonacieux."

Athos quirked his lips at the scorn with which Anne Autriche pronounced the word "drawn". She was clearly unimpressed by Bonacieux's homage to Herblay Fère Vallon. 

Duplessis frowned, blinking. His eyebrows squished together.

"I understand the two Bonacieuxs have decided to end their business relationship," Anne Autriche continued. 

Athos could see Duplessis trying to work out what this meant for him. 

_Perhaps the man doesn't know everything?_

"As a result," Anne Autriche said, "we have decided to treat the two Bonacieux designs as two separate entries. This brings us back up to a shortlist of three: Rouge Duplessis Architects, Buro Bonacieux, and Constance Bonacieux."

Jacques-Michel Bonacieux's outraged cry cut across the crowd's mutters. There was a moment of silence. Constance and Adèle's laughter shattered it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### One day earlier: Thursday afternoon

Rouge Duplessis's receptionist led Clarick to the north transept meeting room, leaving the door open. A copy of Tuesday's _Le Monde_ , open to Jean-Armand Tréville's interview, had been pinned to the noticeboard. 

By a craft scalpel. 

Through Tréville's heart.

Clarick took a seat at the head of the table, folded her hands in her lap, and waited. Sylvie and Ninon knew she was there. They hadn't approved, but had acquiesced. Clarick had promised not to do anything too wicked for Duplessis. 

At home and at Café Égalité the three of them had been on edge. Clarick had always visualised the bond between them in filigree, three silver strands interwoven and intertwined, delicate yet strong. Since the Bonacieux woman's visit that filigree had been brittle: frost instead of metal, threatening to crack.

Duplessis coughed. Clarick started. Duplessis stood silhouetted in the doorway, his carriage rigid. He strode towards her, gesticulating furiously. 

"Why is Studio Tréville the toast of the business community? You were supposed to be making life difficult for Athos de la Fère and his minions, not inspiring Tréville to... what was it?" Duplessis tore the newspaper down. "To 'become a trailblazer of financial transparency and probity.'"

He flung the paper across the table at Clarick, plucked the knife from the noticeboard and weighed it in his hand. 

"Now _my_ clients have given Tréville an overdraft." He leant over her shoulder. " _My_ clients who happen to be _your_ girlfriend's parents. Coincidence?" 

Clarick swallowed. "Ninon and her parents are estranged."

"I do hope you're telling me the truth." Duplessis lifted a lock of Clarick's hair between thumb and forefinger and readied the scalpel. She held statue-still. She could smell the newsprint on his fingers. "I will find out if you've concealed anything." He sliced down, tossed the ringlet onto the table, and slid into the chair next to her. 

"I've been working tirelessly for you," Clarick said. 

"And where are my results?"

Clarick considered her options. Sylvie wouldn't like her telling Duplessis about the Bonacieux woman's anger with her cheating worm of a husband -- Sylvie would see it as taking advantage of a sister's distress. Sylvie and the Bonacieux woman had become positively pally since Saturday. Clarick had seen some of their texts... 

Taking advantage of her ex's distress was surely forgiveable. 

"Athos de la Fère and Aramis d'Herblay are quarrelling," she said. Duplessis beckoned: _more._ "About your and Tréville's JV."

"Savoy?" Duplessis said. "Interesting. And du Vallon?"

"Taking d'Herblay's side."

"Excellent." He stalked from the room, whirling in the doorway to give her a command: "Be at Bourbon Developments tomorrow night."

# # #

Aramis sashayed across the office about five-thirty. He'd changed out of his work clothes, into ripped jeans and a soft grey t-shirt Sofia Martinez had gifted him. 

"Where are you off to?" Athos asked.

"Breakfast meeting with Anne Autriche," Aramis said, winking and settling his sunflower-yellow scooter helmet onto his curls.

Porthos settled onto Athos's desk. "Don't forget the Archbishop'll call tonight."

"I'm counting on it," Aramis said, tipping his visor down. "Nothing like a bit of theology to give the impression of seriousness."

Athos and Porthos watched him leave -- both their eyes on the sway of his hips. They sighed in unison when the door closed behind him, then looked at each other and laughed. Porthos brushed the back of his hand across Athos's cheek. 

"You doing anything tonight, love?" he asked. 

Athos closed his eyes and turned into Porthos's caress. He wondered whether intimacy would break him. 

_No. It will restore me._

He gathered his courage and kissed Porthos's fingers. "I'm doing you," he said.

D'Artagnan made a strangled noise from over by the plan printer.

"What's up, puppy?" Porthos said. 

D'Artagnan glowered at the nickname. "I, uhh..." he trailed off, and waved his hand vaguely. "I thought you were a one-man guy."

"Nah, I'm a two-man guy," Porthos said. "It's just that one of my men is commitment phobic."

Athos sat up straight and spoke with dignity. "I prefer the term 'emotionally stunted.'"

Porthos tugged his hair in rebuke. D'Artagnan sniggered. Athos melted.

_Why do these men make me feel so cherished?_

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### Bourbon Developments: the competition announcement

Athos refused a new glass of champagne, drawing an eyebrow-lift from Anne Clarick. 

"I have one final announcement," Anne Autriche said, "before the _final_ announcement." Her audience chuckled politely. She aimed a sweet smile at Aramis. Louis Bourbon noticed and stomped back onto the stage, settling into the left-hand throne and scrutinising his wife over clasped hands.

"The most innovative design we received was based on the historic building line," Anne said. "It provided business benefits by maximising floorspace, and community benefits by creating a city park in the heart of the old Court of Miracles. Unfortunately..." She paused, with a cold glance at Marie de' Medici. "...we have had to disqualify Herblay Fère Vallon, the architects behind the proposal."

Athos rolled his shoulders. Porthos had left him pleasantly achy. He glanced across at Porthos and Aramis.

Armand noticed. "You must miss your associates," he said, viciously solicitous. His gratification at Athos and Aramis's supposed quarrel was unholy -- and meant Anne Clarick had reported on Constance's texts, as they'd hoped she would.

Athos unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a sky blue waistcoat. Porthos and Aramis turned to watch: Porthos all dimples; Aramis all bedroom eyes. Both Anne and Armand froze. Athos tipped his head to them. He took the words he'd prepared, the words he'd kept concealed all evening, and drove them between Anne's ribs.

"Next time you choose a spy," he said to Armand. "Find someone who doesn't believe everything she reads."

Armand's eyes turned murderous. Anne's lip trembled. Athos pushed away a twinge of guilt and left them to their recriminations. He slipped through the crowd. Porthos and Aramis separated to let Athos take his place between them.

Anne Autriche smiled at the sudden concentration of Herblay Fère Vallon blue. "Porthos du Vallon," she said, "has given us permission to use his concept. The winning scheme will include a pocket park."

Jacques-Michel Bonacieux spread his hands wide in victory. He swaggered towards the dais. Armand's face was a picture. Aramis snapped a photo.

"Neither of our two preferred entries," Anne continued, "currently incorporates a park."

Bonacieux halted, baffled. He darted looks left and right, all eyes on him. 

"We would like Rouge Duplessis and Constance Bonacieux to confirm whether they would be willing, if they were the winner, to amend their design to introduce a park. Armand?"

"Of course, madame," he ground out. "No-one could be happier than I to learn from M. du Vallon."

Anne nodded. "Constance?"

"Absolutely," Constance said. 

Jacques-Michel Bonacieux started to speak. Anne Autriche glared and spoke over him.

"Then, with no further ado, it is my very great pleasure to announce that Bourbon Developments will be awarding the commission for luxury housing in the second arrondissement to an architect whose work combines a powerful vision with a meticulous attention to detail." 

Anne beamed. The audience held its collective breath. Armand chewed the pad of his thumb. Porthos bumped his hip against Athos's. Aramis leaned forward to give them both a grin. Anne took a deep breath. 

"Constance Bonacieux, congratulations. I have no doubt that you -- and your new business partners -- will deliver an iconic building."

Constance whooped. The crowd laughed and clapped. Anne Autriche stepped away from the lectern and invited Constance onto the stage. Constance undid her jacket as she strode forwards. Her blouse was sky blue. The official photographer trailed her, flashbulb flaring. Constance and Anne embraced. Porthos cheered. Aramis whistled. 

Louis Bourbon, unaware of the significance of Constance's colour scheme, lounged in his chair, his smile complacent. He reached for his wife. She allowed him to take her hand.

Athos let his mind wander as Constance made her victory speech. He watched Jacques-Michel Bonacieux slink from the room and enter the lift alone. He enjoyed an argument between Armand Duplessis and Anne Clarick. He couldn't hear their words, giving the scene the quality of a silent film: Anne's eyes too wide, Armand's gestures over-emphatic. 

Athos joined the rapturous applause when Constance finished speaking. She danced down the steps and into a group hug filled with laughter.

"I can't believe--" Constance said.

"--it worked!--" Aramis said.

"--so well," Porthos said.

"Of course it did," Athos said. "Because Constance is the best architect in Paris and the rest of us have some, limited, talent."

"Not to mention deviousness," Constance said, nudging Athos.

"And charm," Athos said, bowing to Aramis.

"And brilliant research skills," Aramis said, with a kiss for Porthos.

"And a surprisingly extensive vocabulary of swearwords," Porthos said, tousling Constance's hair.

Athos caught the eye of a passing waitress. He waited until they'd each taken a champagne flute.

" _Mesdames, Messieurs,_ " Athos said, glass raised. "I give you Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon Architects and our first big commission."

" _Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon!_ "

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

#### One day later: Le Magazine du Monde, Saturday

Cover photograph by Sofia Martinez (l-r Porthos du Vallon, Constance Bonacieux, Athos de la Fère and Aramis d'Herblay)

Coverline: 

Bonacieux Herblay Fère Vallon - Quartet of Miracles

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now officially the first part of a series. I'm not sure when I'll start posting the next story, although it'll be fairly soon. Subscribe to the series if you'd like to be notified, and leave me a comment if you'd like to motivate me!


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